When I was a kid, we lived near a freeway. One day, I asked my mom how far the freeway went and where we’d end up if we just got on it and kept driving. She had a map. Did she show it to me? No. Instead, she said, “Let’s find out.” We got in the car and drove for hours, until we were both too tired to keep going.
Then she pulled out the map, and we found a route home that followed the shore of one of the Great Lakes. This was back in the ’80s, before GPS or cell phones. I was around 10 years old, and she let me navigate us back.
She could’ve easily answered my question or pointed it out on the map without ever leaving the couch but she wanted me to truly understand. I gave birth prematurely. My baby was placed in the NICU, and I had to remain in the hospital. My husband kept reassuring me, telling me how perfect our baby was. Two weeks later, I asked the nurse if I could finally see my child. Her face went pale. She said, “Don’t you know? Your baby didn’t make it. Your husband never saw her your daughter passed away just moments after she was born.” I froze.
