It's definitely easier for me to show you the scene I already wrote but why not both?
Here's the scene and if you like my writing style, I will write a summary as well:
I am handed a long stick wrapped in sparkling paper that crinkles in my small hands.
“What is this?” I ask, my white eyebrows furrowed.
“Open it?” my mom asks as my dad looks on with a smile on his face from where he’s sitting.
We’re in the living room of our house, a closed space filled up with only necessities including the couches, the TV, my toys that are scattered around, etc.
I fix my glasses that have slipped a bit when I furrowed my brows and my lips curl upwards as I start opening this gift.
…It’s a stick. A white stick with a black part in one end and it looks kind of cool but still, it’s a stick.
“What is this?” I ask again as I grab the stick in both hands and swing it around like a sword.
“It’s a cane,” my mother answers. “It’s here to help you when you walk outside.”
My mind goes to the scar on my forehead. I fix my glasses’ position once again and say,
“Is it because I fell down the stairs at my kindergarten? I fell because I was running, I don’t need this.”
I give the “cane” back to my mother because it’s not cool anymore. “I don’t want this.”
My mom smiles in the way she does when I do something she doesn’t like. Kind, but unrelenting. “Honey, please—”
“No,” I cut her off, and my dad frowns.
“Talia, don’t interrupt your mother.”
My lips start trembling as I squeak, “But I don’t want to.”
My mom keeps smiling as she wipes the tears that are flowing down my cheeks. “I want to show you something.”
I sniffle. “What is it?”
She puts the cane down and fetches her phone from the coffee table next in front of the couch my dad is sitting on.
Then she opens a video of a girl in her late teens, dancing.
She stretches her hands out and pulls them back in as she lets herself fall. Then she stands up slowly and then turns in place.
I don’t understand much since I’m a child but I can understand this—she’s telling a story.
Then the video cuts to an interview. She’s smiling with a white cane of her own as she answers questions in a language I don’t understand.
“She’s like me,” I whisper and take the cane back.