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By Sofía Díaz Pizarro

My daughter learned to walk in my heels. Since she was a little girl she loved to wear my clothes. She wore my skirts as a hat and sometimes my bikinis ended up as bows on a skirt that was too long for her. But her favorite thing to do was to wear my heels. I have so many images in my mind, and thank God, so many pictures and videos of her walking in my heels, wearing my bag, ready to go out and eat the world in one bite on her walk to the park. Obviously, after wearing them for a minute, they would shoot out across the aisle and she would run free with her little bare feet.

It is certainly not good for either the feet or the children's spine (or ours) to walk in heels. It would be something that would not allow her to wear them any longer than the seconds she wore them. What's true is that, in each of these heeled outfits, there was much more than just the funny walking sound they made; there was a sense of identity with me. Seeing her do it or wear my lipsticks as she sat next to me in front of the mirror and watching her imitate me by putting it on as close to the lip line as possible, our reflection in the mirror, her gaze full of love and total admiration.

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