Recently Leta spent an afternoon with my stepfather, her Grandpa Rob, at a playground where he says she was standing at the top of a slide when an older kid behind her, a boy probably around seven or eight years old, leaned down and seemed to ask her a question. Without saying a word to the boy Leta instantly whipped around, flung herself down the slide, and came running at my stepfather, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, worried the older kid had said something horrible.
“That boy said, ‘What is your name, little girl?'” she answered.
Accordingly, my stepfather blinked.
“I AM NOT A LITTLE GIRL!” she yelled. “Doesn’t that boy know I can read!”