Last night, well after the time we said goodnight to Coco, she was in her room writing an illustrated story in the dark. She does this a lot. In I walk and sit down. She tells me about the story: it’s snowing in summer, someone gets squashed by a huge ice cube; it’s very imaginative stuff.
“Hey, that’s my Parker pen,” I said, watching her embellishing her drawings.
“It’s not yours anymore,” was her reply.
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