Near the snack stand, a face-painting booth was set up. A young artist painted tiger paws and butterflies on kids in line. Owen tugged on his grandmother’s sleeve, pointing. "Can I get one too?"
Owen’s smile disappeared. He looked down at his shoes, silent.
Margaret knelt beside him, steadying her voice. “Hey,” she said gently, lifting his chin. “You know what? When I was your age, I wanted freckles so badly I tried to draw them on with a brown marker.”
He looked up, surprised.
“They’re special,” she said. “They make your face look like it's been kissed by the sun.”
“Really?” he asked, unsure.
She smiled. “Really. Freckles are beautiful.”
Margaret blinked, caught off guard. Then she laughed—a full laugh that crinkled every line on her face. She hugged him tight.
And just like that, neither of them cared about face paint anymore.
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