“Stop crying, Mom,” Lyra says as she hugs me, not understanding how it feels to watch a piece of herself go off on their own. To house parties where there will be boys and beer and bad ideas, praying they don’t fuck it all up. Praying they make the right choice. Hear the right voice in their ear guiding them. Praying they know what they need to know to make it in a world that’s so big and loud.
