“Have you guys made your list yet?” everyone asks. I hate this question. “We” aren’t going to college; my daughter is.
I say: “That’s not a funny thing. You have to signal.”
My daughter shrugs — an adolescent Morse code meaning: Whatever/You don’t get it /Julia’s mom lets her do it. She’s relaxed as we tool around town, picking up a carton of milk here, a sibling there.
From then on, for the rest of the summer, she drives us everywhere. According to suburban legend, teenagers are supposed to spill their secrets when you’re in the car together. This doesn’t happen with mine — it’s just a lot of questions about what we’re having for dinner. But one day, cruising down a quiet street, my daughter says, “I love driving.”
Thumbnail credit nytimes.com