Last night Precious Youngest walked down the stairs and into the room where I was recounting my long, laborious day to the Saint. She handed me two sheets of paper, a red pen, my reading glasses, and went back upstairs. (I've been proof reading papers for the Precious Daughters for a long time, by senior year they take editing suggestions without question.)
The essay was for her AP Literary Analysis course. The assignment was to write a personal essay about a remembered event. I started reading and two sentences into the paper I knew which “event” she was writing about. An incident that altered her high school experience in incalculable ways, not necessarily for the better.
I read the essay three times. Her writing was succinct, powerful, emotionally raw, and fearless. Fiercly blinking to keep the threatening tears at bay, I gave her back those two pages. With an unused red pen.