The Artist, Redux

The Girl likes to refer to herself as an artist. Just a few days ago, she was proclaiming that she’s an artist but that it’s a secret.

This morning, as I was planning some lessons, she came into the study from downstairs, picture in hand.

“Here Tata. I’m an artist.”

I glanced at the picture, saying the obligatory, “I know honey,” then stopped what I was doing to take a closer look.

“Did you help her with this?” I called out to K downstairs.

“No,” came the reply.

“Not even a little bit?”

I think I can be forgiven my initial skepticism.


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