My daughter ambles away from the little boy carrying two toy guns and a toy crossbow in a tiny toy holster, calling “Hey, hey” to her at the playground beside the bay. I usually encourage her to introduce herself, explain what she’s doing and invite other kids to join in, but today I don’t. I let her climb the rope web, pretend to drive the wheel of the play structure shaped like a pirate ship, and I don’t suggest that she talk to the little boy.

I look for his mother, but she’s sitting on a bench and holding a big dog on a leash, so I don’t approach her. I assume that if she let her kid run around the playground like that on an average Saturday morning, she was at peace with the message she was sending. Instead, I text to the mom group chat, There’s a kid at the playground decked out like a kiddie militia member and I am extremely uncomfortable.

I don’t say, Hey, I don’t think she wants to play with those, but if you let me hold your guns, maybe you could climb together. I could lay them aside for him, take the weight of being a little boy off his small back in its striped t-shirt. I could, but I don’t, and when he leaves with his mother and their dog, I wonder if anyone ever will.