She is kind enough to share my piece of Daddy's birthday cake with me.
I take her home from a visit and stand to leave. To prevent this, she closes the front door and leads me by the hand to the back yard.
We are at the park for a family picnic. She runs to me, hugs my leg, and says the magic words, "I love you." She doesn't know what they mean, but they touch me deeply.
She is the one whom I name like I have named no other. I name her honey, darling, sweetheart: words which are not, were not in my vocabulary. I don't know why; they just weren't.
I have loved and love them all, Cuppa, the children and their spouses, and they know this, but it seems that she somehow touches me in a place that is specially and uniquely hers and makes me different in some way.