Apparently, Younger’s friend likes a girl and, also apparently, the girl likes him. But, despite the evident reciprocity, the friend wouldn’t “ask her out.”
And when I asked why, Younger just shrugged and said, with a heavy load of world weariness weighing his voice, “It’s a long story, Mom.”
This young man is thirteen and in the seventh grade. And he already has a long story. I didn’t have a long story until I was in my twenties and could share my labor experiences with whomever I could trick into listening.
One of us isn’t living our life right, and I’m a little concerned it might be me.