The question seemed simple enough.

A group of professional adults—teachers, psychologists, and researchers—sat together one afternoon and posed it to a group of children between the ages of four and eight:

“What does love mean?”

The adults expected charming answers. Maybe a few giggles. Perhaps something about Valentine’s Day or cartoon characters. What they received instead stunned them—truths so pure, so profound, that the grown-ups found themselves blinking back tears.

Because children, unburdened by cynicism, have a way of cutting through life’s clutter to the very heart of what matters.

Eight-year-old Rebecca raised her hand first. She told them about her grandmother, who had arthritis and couldn’t bend over to paint her toenails anymore. “So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too,” she explained. Then she smiled and added softly, “That’s love.”

It was love made visible in wrinkled hands, in small acts of care that didn’t vanish with age but grew deeper with time.

Billy, just four, followed with a thought so profound the room went quiet. “When someone loves you,” he said, “the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.”

Safe in their mouth. Four years old, and he had described what so many poets try their entire lives to capture—the way love reshapes even the smallest syllables.

Karl, age five, brought laughter back to the room. “Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” The adults chuckled, recognizing the innocent reflection of something they themselves had probably once done.

Chrissy, six, thought of food. “Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.” Anyone who has ever guarded their fries knows just how big of a sacrifice that really is.

Terri, only four, summed it up in fewer words than anyone: “Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.”

Danny, eight, thought of his parents. “Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” Love, he had learned, wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about small sips, quiet checks, and little acts of unseen devotion.

Bobby, seven, said something that made the adults stop in their tracks. “Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.”

How many grown-ups had forgotten to do that? How many had missed the heartbeat of love because they were too busy tearing open wrapping paper?

Nikka, six, had wisdom that could change the world: “If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.” Her answer drew gasps. The note-taker scribbled it down with trembling hands. “We need a few million more Nikkas on this planet,” one of the researchers whispered.

Noelle, seven, saw love in small gestures. “Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it every day.”

Tommy, six, thought of longevity: “Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.”

Cindy, eight, spoke of courage. “During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’t scared anymore.”

Love, in her eyes, was a steady smile that anchored her through fear.

Clare, six, knew love in the form of bedtime kisses. “My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don’t see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.”

Elaine, five, said, “Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.”

Chris, seven, knew it was in the eyes. “Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.”

Mary Ann, four, saw love through the loyalty of her dog. “Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.”

Lauren, four, thought of her older sister. “I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.”

Karen, seven, had a description that painted pictures in the air: “When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” The adults laughed, but secretly, each of them pictured the moment and found it beautiful.

Mark, six, knew that love sometimes means seeing each other in the most unflattering ways. “Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn’t think it’s gross.”

Jessica, eight, offered a lesson many adults forget: “You really shouldn’t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.”

And then came the final story, the one that left every adult in the room silent.

It was told of a four-year-old boy whose next-door neighbor was an elderly man who had just lost his wife. One afternoon, the boy saw the old man crying. Without hesitation, the child wandered into the neighbor’s yard, climbed onto his lap, and simply sat there.

Later, the boy’s mother asked him, “What did you say to him?”

The little boy replied, “Nothing. I just helped him cry.”