A couple of minutes later, she’s buckled up in her booster seat and I’m scrubbing her hands and arms with the wet wipe when she says, “When is my mom getting a bigger car?” “She drives a minivan. How big of a car does she need?” “Not Nana,” Diem says. “My mom. Skylar said my mom never comes to my T-ball games, and I told her she will when she gets a bigger car.” I stop wiping her hands. She never brings up her mother. This is twice in one day we’ve brushed the conversation.
