Zariah, my four-year-old, never walks through a store — she dances through it. The aisles are her stage, and if music plays from the speakers or a ringtone pings nearby, she twirls, spins, and throws in a few dramatic jazz hands. Most people smile. Some even clap. But last week, one woman didn’t.
She wrinkled her nose, muttered something just loud enough, and said, “Your mom should teach you some manners.”
Before I could respond, Zariah turned, tilted her head, and said with the kind of serious sass only a preschooler can pull off:
“Tell your husband.”
I blinked. The woman’s mouth opened, then shut, and she pushed past us, clearly fuming.
When I knelt beside Zariah and asked why she said that, she shrugged and said, “She looked mean. I think she misses her husband.”
