Whoever scares or gets angry about my title will understand how I felt yesterday. After a drizzy start of the day, the sun had broken through. We got on the bike, my daughters and I. It smelled of spring. We kicked the dike with a headwind. We ate bread on a bench and listened to the rippling water. We stopped by a lawn. I got a daisies necklace. “Before Mother's Day, Mom.”

We had fun to have a story of my youngest. We drove through the woods and made up an exciting story. Take turns a phrase. We came back in town and passed a playground. “Can we?” Yes, of course. I took a book out of my bag and looked for a bench in the sun. It got busier in the playground.

“Rot on to Africa, dirty stinks! This playground belongs to us! You don't belong here!” Children aged twelve, a few years older than mine. They're trying to finish my daughters off the climbing frame. And that doesn't matter softly. “Rotting stinkerds! Go back to your home country! Dirty poo color!” My youngest cries, the eldest strikes. I'll be with them in a few steps. Ferocious.

Two girls and a boy get off their feet fast. Timide is the remaining group looking at me after my tirade. “We didn't know you were their mother, ma'am.” Yes, that happens to me more often. That's why I regularly witness dirty racist talk. Not always by kids, by the way. It worries me for the future. Now I can stand up for them. Later they will have to do it themselves.

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