I’m late to collect and children pass me in the street clutching paintings that drip glitter and feathers.
I see my daughter through the window.
Alone in the playroom.
Back to me.
The frowning playleader nods me aside as my heart plummets.
“I’m afraid she hasn’t done an about me picture. She covered her hands in glue first thing and has then spent the morning picking it off.”
My laugh breaks her concentration and she runs over. Smiling. As we walk home her hand is slightly sticky. It tells me more about her than any picture ever could.