wicked smart

“We’re okay out here,” he said, as he pulled up alongside me on his scooter and saw me checking nervously to see if any cars were coming. “Dad lets Gabriel and me ride our bikes up and down this street by ourselves all the time. We always watch for cars.”

“He told me,” I said. “I’ve never been around to see you ride your bikes before, though, so I guess I’m nervous anyway.”

“But we ride our bikes all the time when you’re not here, and you don’t even know about it,” he said patiently. “You probably don’t worry about us when you don’t know we’re out here.”

“So why would I worry now?”


It’s wrong to want a ten-year-old to be your therapist, right? Right?