Ah, but the envelope belied the contents.
So did the paper, the choice of writing implements (crayons), and the random, 3-months-early wish for a "happy birthday."
The rest, however, was quite straightforward. "Dear Lea," it said. "I love you. I love playing with you at school. Love, W."
A smile just barely registered on Lea's face as I read her the letter. Her older sisters hooted and hollered, chanting the boy's name in that horrible, taunting, 6-year-old way. But somehow Lea—she who dissolves in a small heap of defeat if her socks are "bumpy"—maintained her composure.
She calmy took the letter from my hands and secured it on the refrigerator with no less than five magnets. She then twirled out of the kitchen and into her room, presumably to savor the knowledge of her conquest in private.