Finley and I were walking across the Target parking lot the other night. The pavement was slick, and we weren’t in a hurry. We strolled, holding hands, and talking. “Mom, what did you want to be when you were my age?” I thought for a minute, “A writer.” She squeezed my hand and smiled, “You kind of do that now, right?” “Yes.” She looked up at me, “Do you ever wish you were a book writer and that you didn’t do all the other stuff you do?” “I’m not sure, maybe? I mean, I like what I do,” I said honestly. “Would you still have met Dad if you were a writer?” “That’s pretty doubtful. A lot of things have to happen, decisions and…

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