« My husband can’t even make a ponytail. »
« That girl is lucky. »
And maybe she was.
Her father was always there.
But every time I watched him braid that enormous length of hair, I found myself looking at Goldie instead.
I saw her holding the braid in one hand while running, so she wouldn’t step on it.
I saw her gather it into her fist while eating so she could lean toward her lunch tray.
Once, when she got up from a table, another child had accidentally trapped the end under a backpack.
Goldie didn’t complain.
She just waited until the child moved it.
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