I couldn’t see it through her fury but she’d wanted me to reassure her and I had, in many acts of stubbornness, drawn lines in the sand.

I remember my moderate disappointment. Shouldn’t a daughter resemble her mother?

But maybe, just maybe, if she remembers what we share, that we are literally cut from the same cloth, she'll remember me.

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As parents we are asked to share so much: our opinions, our thoughts, our food, space and resources. More importantly, we are asked to share our stories; our memories.

But I cried when the bus pulled away to take her kindergarten, because for the first time she was leaving me.

No, she used those hands to break horses, raise children, sell watermelons on roadside stands, climb trees, and travel. My mother used her hands to live well.

I am going to make an effort to compliment her outward appearance as much as I do her other strengths, before she’s pushed to seek society’s shallow brand of satisfaction.

 I don’t know how to teach my daughter about beauty. I’m scared to do it wrong.

“If you want to be a model,” I tell her, “be a model of character.”