Nicole, at two years and four months, had been watching her baby sister Chloe with great interest all morning. Chloe, bundled in Gramma’s soft knitted vest to stay warm, looked especially cozy—almost regal in her tiny seven‑month-old way. The moment Nicole saw that vest, her eyes widened with longing. She wanted it too.
Gramma, amused, helped Nicole slip into the vest. It was far too big, draping around her like a flowing royal gown. Nicole marched straight to the mirror, chin lifted, curls bouncing. The transformation was instant. Her face lit up with pure delight.
“I’m a princess,” she whispered to herself, twirling slowly so the oversized vest swished around her like a storybook dress.
For a few glorious moments, she basked in her new royal identity—hands clasped, shoulders back, admiring every angle of her reflection. But then, mid‑twirl, her fingers brushed the collar. It was damp.
Nicole froze.
Her eyes grew wide. She poked the collar again, just to be sure. Yes—wet. Very wet.
Suddenly, the princess façade shattered.
With dramatic urgency only a toddler can summon, she spun around and declared at full volume:
“CHLOE ATE IT!”
The adults burst into laughter. Chloe blinked, confused but cheerful, kicking her little legs as if to say, Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Who can say?
Nicole, meanwhile, peeled off the vest with great seriousness. A princess she may be—but not one who wears something her baby sister has apparently tasted.