As soon as Layla's mom returned with the photo album, I knew this was going to be good. The album itself was a bulky, well-worn relic of the past, its cover slightly faded but still vibrant with a floral design.
She placed it on the dining table with an exaggerated flourish, her grin wide and mischievous.
"Here we go," her mom announced with glee, flipping open the album as though it were a treasure chest of embarrassing riches.
"Mamá, no!" Layla protested, practically diving for the album. But her mom, held it just out of reach and wagged a finger at her. "Ah, ah, ah. Let Zaya enjoy this."
I leaned in eagerly, and the first photo came into view. Little Layla, no older than three, stood defiantly in a plastic kiddie pool.
Her face was twisted into a determined scowl, her tiny fists planted on her hips, and her dark curls sticking out wildly under a sunhat. The cherry on top? She was wearing floaties covered in cartoon fish.