I have covered Donald Trump’s second term since the day he was inaugurated, and each day, my faith in him and his administration has dwindled a little more.

As a seasoned journalist, I have usually been able to find the positive in the most heinous situations. The courageous under fire, the unexpected hospitality, the humor amid sorrow, the stoicism after the most extreme tragedy.

But Trump’s presidency has eaten at my soul. How could a country I love have voted (twice) for a president with so very few redeeming features?

How, indeed, could such a small man be raised to such a big job?

I have been told by those who know him better that in person he exhibits deft and often charming command in his exclusion of all around a table. A few friends of his I’ve spoken to say he can show flashes of personable allure betwixt the boasts and the boorishness.

But, honestly, I leave work in despair most evenings.

And then on Friday night, I saw some hope. Or at least I thought I did.

Like most of my colleagues in the media, I was expecting the same old Trump at the reconstituted White House Correspondents’ Dinner. I was at the dinner in April that was aborted after a gunman’s ill-fated assassination attempt.

It seemed a good sign that Trump wanted to give it another go, and the early signs looked promising. He was clearly catching up with some sleep when he first arrived. Maybe because it wasn’t about him.

But he came alive when the award ceremony began.

He shrugged. He smiled. He smirked. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to Karoline Leavitt with quips and asides that felt to the audience like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

Then he shook all the winners’ hands and........

© The Daily Beast