Page 145 of Scars and Crowns

"That's hurtful."

"You don't have a moustache."

"Yet."

She bursts into laughter. I add a completely unnecessary moustache to my stick figure.

Sara immediately crosses it out. "No, Papa."

"An artist should respect creative freedom."

"Mumma doesn't have a moustache either."

"That's because your mother has better taste than I do." She nods, apparently accepting this explanation.

Then she begins writing.

"M . . . " She pauses. "U . . . " Another pause."M . . . " She looks at me. "Papa, how do you spell Mumma?"

"M-U-M-M-A."

She carefully copies each letter, saying them under her breath as she goes. The word comes out crooked, with one M considerably larger than the others.

MUMMA.

Underneath it, she draws three figures holding hands.

Me.

Her.

Anamika.

I'm considerably taller than both of them, which Sara insists is essential to the accuracy of the portrait. "You made Papa very tall."

"Because you are."

"Fair."

Then she adds hearts. One. Two. Five. Then she apparently decides five aren't enough and fills the bottom of the page with them until there is barely any white space left.

WE LOVE YOU MUMMA.

The words stretch unevenly across the bottom, the last few letters growing larger because she's apparently run out of patience.

I stare at it for a second. "Perfect."

Sara beams. "I know." The flowers are her idea too.

We go into the garden, and I let her choose whatever she wants. There is no attempt at arrangement, symmetry, or anything remotely resembling the bouquets the palace florist usually creates.

Daisies are mandatory. Apparently marigolds are necessary because they're ‘happy’. She chooses jasmine because it smells like Mumma. Then she spots a rose lying slightly bent near the fountain and immediately crouches down to rescue it. "This one."

"It's a little wilted."

She looks at me with genuine disapproval. "So?"

I lift my hands. "Nothing."