When my five-year-old returned from school, he had with him a nice small flower. (Yes, he still has the habit that started about a year and a half ago.) He handed it over to me the moment he stepped down from his van, and went on to describe how his friend pricked himself trying to pluck one for his Mother, and some other child intentionally trampled on it.

“I did not pluck from the plant, Amme. I picked a fallen one from the ground.”

“Oh, your friend also has the habit of giving flowers to his Mom.”
“I don’t know.”

“So what made you think he was plucking it for her?”
“I assumed so. Why else should he pluck it?”

I left the flower on the table as I went into the kitchen to get his lunch ready, and he proceeded to change his school uniform. Barely ten minutes later, we got into an argument, one of those Mom-Son things. He charged towards the table, and in one swift movement, he tore the flower in two. I didn’t say anything, just stared at him for a moment with a forlorn face, and went back into the kitchen. I don’t know what he felt when he saw my face change.

A few minutes later, I found him sitting on the floor, and did not pay much attention to what he was doing. He came up behind me, carefully placed the flower whose petals were glued together with his Fevistik, and said:

“Tomorrow I will bring you another good flower, and I will not tear it apart.”