Lottie tugs at the garden gate, but it won't budge. She stands on tiptoes and pushes again. The gate is too high, too heavy, too much.
Lottie sits beside a daisy and pokes it with her toe. It bounces back. She sighs and slumps. I'm just too little, she whispers to the petals.
That night, her dad lifts her onto his shoulders. His arms are wide. You're small, he says, but not too small. His whisper is warm against her ear.
The next morning, Lottie peeks through the kitchen window. Her mom presses a hand to the glass. Lottie presses hers against the other side. They match anyway.
Lottie runs back to the garden and finds a seed pod twice her size. She cradles it gently. It cracks open and tiny white seeds float up like stars.
Lottie giggles and catches one on her tongue. It tastes like sunshine.
Lottie climbs into bed and her mom tucks the blanket around her shoulders. You belong right here, she says, pressing a kiss to Lottie's forehead.
Lottie's eyelids grow heavy. Her smile stays.
