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Vijftien, zestien schat ik haar. Ze kletst vrolijk met haar moeder. Die is halverwege de veertig, maar kan daar nog goed mee leven zie je.
‘Anders moeten we toch maar naar die winkel waar ik het over had’, zegt de moeder.
De dochter kijkt verbaasd opzij. ‘Dat is toch een ouwevrouwenwinkel?’
Even wiebelt haar moeder lichtjes op de niet al te hoge hakjes.
‘Zullen we eerst ergens wat drinken?’, stelt ze voor.

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