Annie Lorochahov was exactly two years old the date of her first word. Her face scrunched up tight, turning red and her eyebrows furrowing in frustration as her lips attempted the means of communication besides crying, one that she was so used to.
“Vev,” she began, then shook her head; no, that wasn’t quite right, and she knew it. “Rev…revolution,” she stated, then crossed her little arms over her chest with a satisfied smile.
That was the word that she was trying so hard to get out. It meant something, something to do with…with whom she was…although she was but a toddler, she was absolutely certain of it.