"This is luxury." he whispered. I shook my head, not being able to process what he was saying properly.
The room was adorned with thrift store goodies, old couches, and smelled-- well, old.
I clutched my Coach bag, gritting my teeth and shook my head once more.
"This is a mistake." I stated, exhaling quickly.
"It is not." he replied, taking my hand.
I squealed at the contact, because-- goodness, this was where he lived, and I don't think this was really what I had in mind when he described his house as 'deluxe'.
"You've got to be more open...
It wasn't one of those baby swings, with a back and leg holes, safe and sturdy; it was a real swing and he had no idea how to make it move.
"Move your legs," said Daddy. "Forward and back, just like that, forward and back."
It felt like the swing was starting to move. Not much rhythm, yet. The light grey sky didn't do much to encourage, and he looked back, hoping for a push like usual.
A few minutes later and he was soaring, smile as wide as the arc the swing made from apex to apex - velcro-laced...