Rosie stood in the middle of the tile floor in silver shoes two sizes too shiny, counting under her breath. I watched her from the table, a cup of cold tea forgotten in my hands.
“One-two-three, turn,” she whispered. “One-two-three, turn.”
Her dress wasn’t even on yet. She was practicing in pajama shorts and a t-shirt, but her face was already at prom.
Rosie had mosaic Down syndrome.
“Mom, am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing it perfectly, baby.”
Rosie had mosaic Down syndrome. Strangers rarely noticed at first, but her classmates had noticed every single day.