The author of this piece has graciously allowed me to provide this sample edit.
Original
With tears streaming down my cheeks and a runny nose, I bawled, “You don’t love me anymore.”
“Of course, I love you,” My mom assured me, “What makes you think I don’t love you anymore?” My mother’s inquiry was both patient and wise.
For six years I was an only child. I loved cuddles and kisses with my mommy. The past few months, the big bump in my mom’s belly pushed me off my mother’s lap. I was a tad resentful at being told, “I’m sorry honey, there’s just not enough room on mommy’s lap for both of you.”
On top of that, one of my favorite things was the fact that my mom, who was a skilled seamstress, would make us matching dresses. I had outgrown the last one she made and there were no new dress patterns or fabric laying near her sewing machine. “You love the new baby more than me because you don’t make us matching dresses anymore,” I blubbered in my most pitiful tone.
Within a few days of our conversation, yards of bright yellow fabric, new thread, and two matching patterns appeared on my mother’s sewing desk. She acted—determined to prove she still loved me. Despite my unlovely temper-tantrum, my mother’s love for me remained constant.
Edited
Tears streamed down my cheeks and my nose ran. “You don’t love me anymore,” I bawled.
“Of course I love you,” Mommy assured me. “What makes you think I don’t love you anymore?” Her inquiry was both patient and wise.
For six years I had been an only child. I loved cuddles and kisses with mommy. But now a growing bump in her belly pushed me off her lap. I resented being told, “I’m sorry honey, there’s just not enough room on Mommy’s lap for both of you.”
On top of that, there was no new dress in my closet. My mom, who was a skilled seamstress, often made us matching dresses—one of my favorite things. I had outgrown the last one she made, and no new dress patterns or fabric lay near her sewing machine. “You love the new baby more than me because you don’t make us matching dresses anymore,” I blubbered in my most pitiful tone.
Within a few days of our conversation, yards of bright yellow fabric, new thread, and two matching patterns appeared on my mother’s sewing desk. She acted—determined to demonstrate she still loved me. Despite my unlovely temper tantrum, my mother’s love for me remained constant.