I should have known something profound was brewing. I’ve learned to read the signs, the subtle shifts in her small expressions that telegraph the whirring of the gears in her mind. It starts with the eyebrows. They draw together, furrowing with a seriousness that seems far too weighty for her small face. Her gaze turns inward, her bright eyes looking at something far beyond the room we’re in. It’s her tell, the quiet before a storm of startlingly insightful thought. But even with this warning, I was utterly unprepared for what was coming.
She had been staring at me, her head tilted slightly. It wasn’t a vacant stare, but a deep, analytical observation. I continued with my task, oblivious, caught up in the mundane rhythm of the day. The silence stretched on, filled only by the quiet hum of the house. Then, with the clear, unwavering tone only a child can truly muster, she spoke the words that had been forming behind those furrowed brows.
“Are we poor?”
The question hung in the air, simple and yet devastatingly complex. It landed with a physical force, knocking the air from my lungs and bringing my world to a screeching halt. A torrent of emotions flooded my mind—shock, defensiveness, and a deep, aching sadness. Where had this come from? What had she seen or overheard that would lead her to formulate such a weighty question? My mind raced through a catalog of our life, seeing it suddenly through her eyes. Did she notice the worn-out couch? The car that was a little too old? The times I’d said “we can’t afford that right now” at the grocery store?
I looked at her, searching for a hint of judgment in her expression, but there was none. There was only pure, unadulterated curiosity. She wasn’t accusing; she was simply asking, trying to place us on the vast map of the world she was just beginning to understand.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to formulate an answer that was both honest and reassuring. I explained that “poor” and “rich” weren’t just about the amount of money someone has in their bank account. I told her that we were rich in things that couldn’t be bought—a home filled with love, laughter that echoed through the halls, and the immeasurable treasure of having each other. I spoke of the richness of bedtime stories, backyard adventures, and family movie nights with bowls of popcorn.
She listened intently, her expression unreadable. I wasn’t sure if my words were getting through, if I was truly answering the question she was asking. After I finished, she was quiet for another moment, processing it all.
Then she did something that melted away all of my adult anxieties. She walked over to her small treasure box, a place where she kept her most prized possessions—a shiny rock, a sparkly sticker, a plastic ring. She rummaged around for a moment before her fingers closed around a single, shiny coin.
She walked back over to me, her small hand outstretched. “Here,” she said with a solemn nod. “This is for you. So you don’t have to worry.”
In that moment, I was overcome. Her small gesture of pure, selfless love was the only answer that ever mattered. It was a powerful, humbling reminder from the wisest person I know. We weren’t poor. In fact, in that moment, holding that single coin from her tiny hand, I felt like the richest person in the entire world.