“Gran Lottie, I want me a Happy Meal,” four-year-old granddaughter Peyton issued instructions from her carseat in the back.
“We can’t stop,” I answered.
“You got me a Happy Meal yesterday.”
Was that a reminder or a reprimand?
“Grand Willard and I had to go to the bank this morning, so we’re running late.”
Peyton’s bottom lip popped into a pout and her head dropped to her chest. A sadder looking child could not be found.