Parents’ day was actually moms’ day at the ballet studio, but since my ex-wife, Kylie’s mom, had had to take a last-minute business trip, I was filling in. “Five more minutes,” I said, as I exited the highway. It was quite possibly the tenth time Kylie had asked that question since leaving the house twenty minutes ago, but she was excited: It was parents’ day at her ballet class. It was tattered and faintly smelly, yet she still refused to go anywhere without it. Mutsy had been drooled on, vomited on, spat up on, and, when Kylie was two, drew on with a purple Sharpie. Strapped in to her booster seat, she was smiling and clutching her well-loved stuffed bunny. I quickly glanced at my four year old daughter, Kylie, through the rearview mirror.
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