Anna and I walk past a cemetery on the way to preschool. She looks at the markers, beaming:
“Mama, we don’t have any dead people in our family.”
That’s right, dear: no teenage mothers, no drug addicts and no dead people. That’s the kind of folk you come from.
Can you blame her for feeling lucky, maybe even a little smug?
We have a few crazies, and a couple more rich uncles would be nice, but at least we don’t produce dead people. Count it among our immutable characteristics: Medium-sized, middle class, educated family of live people.
That’s one of our beloved family stories starring my daughter. And it sums up her outlook.
I am her mother: Brown hair, hazel eyes, fair complexion, reasonably intelligent, young.