Until that moment, the evening had been wonderful.
Mr. Harrison, our 67-year-old neighbor, had lived across the street for years. He was a widower who mostly kept to himself, but he’d never been openly unkind to us.
“She’s eight years old,” I said, struggling to remain calm.
“I know how old she is.”
“Then why would you speak to her like that?”
He looked past me toward our house.
“Just leave.”
I took Lily’s hand before she could start crying.
“Come on, sweetheart. There are plenty of other houses.”
She followed quietly, her bucket swinging against her leg.
Halfway down the sidewalk, she asked, “Did I do something bad, Mommy?”
“No, honey. Absolutely not.”
“Why didn’t he like my dress?”
I crouched beside her.
“Your dress is beautiful. It’s just that sometimes, grown-ups make very unkind choices.”
She looked back at his house.
“He didn’t even give me one piece of candy.”
