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I first called her ‘Peanut.’ She opened her eyes, hiccupped, smiled. It stuck.
Her third word was “Uncle.” I lost out to “Moo” and what we think was possibly “Purple.”
We talk. “Who first called me Peanut?” “I did, Peanut.” She smiles. I do, too.
3 weeks ago, she asks, “When I get bigger, what are you going to call me?” Her eyes fill with water. “Are you just going to call me Nut? I don’t want to be Nut.” I hug her hard and assure her that will never happen.
For her, I am grateful. My Peanut, forever.

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