A friend of mine occasionally drives by my house in a bright red convertible. She has no children, and breezes through town with the top down whenever the temperature sneaks above 70 degrees.
I hate her.
I was still driving my own convertible up to Mare’s first birthday. She was just a week old the first time I tucked her in the back seat, rear-facing in her little bucket.
See, I thought. Not everything has to change.
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