Deanna Hoak

My daughter and I were waiting for my son to finish up a horseback lesson recently when a boy from the stables wandered over and clearly started checking her out.

I remarked upon it when the boy left, and she rolled her eyes: “I saw him.”

“You might as well get used to it,” I said. “You’re a very beautiful girl.” She smiled at me and squeezed my hand.

The boy swaggered back a moment later, to stand beside her. “You should see this! I just found a dead mole with all his intestines hanging out.”

She gave him what I can only describe as a withering look (I actually feel sorry for the boys when she does this, though her father grins–odd how the empathy works the opposite direction there), and he mumbled something unintelligible and left. (I wanted to post a picture of the look, but she has forbidden me.)

I quirked my lips at her. “Sadly, the lines don’t usually get much better either.”

She buried her head in her hands.