I've spent the last 20 minutes with my heart in my throat. My daughter has been reading an adaptation of Little Women and as we departed, she told me that Beth had been holding the Hummel baby as it died of scarlet fever, and that now Beth was showing signs of the sickness.
I sat and fretted. When I heard her come down the hallway, I turned to her with open arms. But she wasn't crying. She was grinning. "I finished the whole book!"
"And...Beth?" I asked shakily.
"Beth got better!"
"Beth got better?!"
"Yeah!"
I gave her a hug and passed a tremulous hand over her hair. It has been averted for now. But someday I want her to read the real book.
. . . .
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