“You play Grand Theft Auto with Alex?” She shrugs. “Is that appropriate for a . . . three-year-old?” “I’m seven,” she declares haughtily. Holding up six fingers. I let that slide. “Not gonna lie, pretty proud that it was within my range of estimation.” Another shrug, which seems like her default response. Relatable, honestly. She settles on the bed next to me and I’m briefly worried that she might pee on it. Does she have a diaper? Is she housebroken? Should I burp her? “I want to play,” she repeats.
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