“Bedazzled boots!” Daisy exclaims. “Auntie El, that’s genius.”
“Oh my God,” Aria concurs, gripping her brace dramatically. “We’ll match. People will see us walk in and they’ll know we mean business.”
Daisy wiggles her shoulders. “Business with SPARKLES.”
Aria laughs so hard her braid flips over her shoulder. “We’re gonna look so cool. The other girls won’t know what hit them.”
“Yeah,” Daisy says proudly, “they’ll be like, ‘Wow, who are those stylish queens?’”
“‘Those fashion icons,’” Aria corrects, pointing to herself and Daisy like they’re already signing autographs.
I grin, my heart warming at the sight of them hyping each other up. “Just remember, your boots won’t help if your shirts aren’t cute too.”
Daisy gasps. “Auntie El’s right. We need the whole fit.”
Aria nods, completely serious. “Riding boots, glitter shirts, matching hair ribbons… victory.”
“Victory,” Daisy repeats, fist-bumping her.
The two of them fall into a rapid debate about color schemes—teal vs. fuchsia, whether fringe is too much for competition, if glitter hairspray should be allowed—and I just drive, listening, smiling, letting their joy fill up all the silent parts of my chest.
They deserve this. The excitement, the dreams, the silly debates. Everything.
They chatter the entire ride into town, and my heart feels full watching them. Full in a way that is dangerous, warm, and a little painful, because loving kids that aren’t yours is a very specific ache. It’s joy wrapped in caution tape.
But today is supposed to be fun, and I am determined not to ruin it with my spiraling.
We park near the equestrian sportswear store, which sits between a quaint coffee shop and an antique boutique run by a woman who claims she can “smell trauma on people.” I always circle the block when she’s outside.
It takes the girls all of thirty seconds inside the store before they scatter like puppies let off a leash. Aria heads straight for the brightly colored section, Daisy beelines to the classic browns. I trail behind them with the cart, already resigned to the chaos.
“Ella! Look!” Aria holds up a pair of baby-pink boots with tiny silver stars. “These are soooo pretty.”
Before I can answer, Daisy pipes up from two shelves over. “Pink is cute, but brown is fast.” She declares, lifting a plain pair of brown boots.
Aria squints at her. “Where did you hear that?”
“Uncle Beck,” Daisy says confidently. “He said brown boots are for real cowgirls.”
In the car, she was saying how glitter adds speed, and now she’s back to default mode. That was a quick switch. Kids will be kids, it seems.
Aria gasps. “So pink boots are what… for fake cowgirls?”
Daisy shrugs. “I mean… they’re pretty fake.”
Aria places her hand dramatically over her heart. “I’ll have you know pink is POWERFUL.”
Daisy flips her braid over her shoulder. “And brown wins trophies.”
I step between them before this becomes a boot-themed civil war. “Why don’t we try on both and see what feels good on your feet? Pretty and practical both matter.”
They agree with eager nods, and soon there are boxes everywhere, tissue paper flying, and boots scattered across the floor.
Aria eventually slips on a pair of rich chestnut boots embroidered with silver vines, the kind that catch light without looking too grown-up. She stands in them, rolls onto the balls of her feet, then walks in a slow circle.
Her face softens into a thoughtful, almost reverent expression. “These…” she says quietly. “These are winner boots.”
She says it with so much conviction even the cashier at the counter nods approvingly.
