Five years later.
"Mama! Tony took my doll!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did NOT!"
I closed my laptop with a sigh. Commission reports would have to wait. Again.
Rosa stood in the doorway of my office, hands on her hips, looking every inch the tiny queen she was becoming. At six years old, she was all dark curls and grey eyes her father's daughter through and through. Behind her, five-year-old Antonio clutched a Barbie doll, looking defiant.
"Tony, why do you have your sister's doll?"
"She said I couldn't play with it. But it's not fair. She has my race car."
"Because your race car is cooler than my dolls," Rosa explained with perfect six-year-old logic. "So we traded."
"I didn't agree to trade!"
"You have to share," Rosa insisted. "Mama, tell him he has to share."
This was my life now. Mafia queen turned referee for toy disputes.
"Rosa, give Tony back his race car. Tony, give Rosa back her doll. And if you two can't share nicely, I'm taking both toys away."
