I have now been asked—two times—if I am Scarlett’s grandmother. This is not a joke. Two entire people have looked at me and seen, I guess (?), only a wheelchair. The first woman was so surprised it was comical. We’d been talking for nearly ten minutes in a park when Scarlett wandered over.

“Your granddaughter?” she asked.

“My daughter,” I said.

“Oh!” she blurted. “I thought you were my age! I’m 67.”

“I’m 36,” I told her. I could tell she felt bad, but I figured it was a one-time mistake, a trick of the light, my choice of oversized sunglasses, my shapeless maxi dress. I wasn’t insulted.

Then I took Scarlett for ice cream on Saturday, just the two of us. We rolled the mile from our house to a little sweet shop in our nearest downtown area. It’s been open since 1931, and retains the charm (and maybe a few actual bags of candy) of that time. The only thing that gives it away is the collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Hello Kitty Pez dispensers in the display window.

Scarlett likes to try to see if she can get candy out of the machines that sit outside the doorway, without putting any money in. “Let’s just see if I get lucky,” she’ll say, as if it would be the thrill of a lifetime to wind up with a free handful of rock hard sugar shaped like fruit. Read More>