Startled, I looked up, then down, to see a short woman, presumably Emma’s mom, staring up at me with a smile plastered across her face.
We slowly got into our car. My husband suggested that we leave and come back; in just less than 3 hours she would be ready to come home, but that was an eternity to me.
What they didn’t know about was the tearful frustration of a teenage girl who wanted to look cute in clothes that were always too short everywhere—sleeves, legs—or hung like a tent when going up a size. It was incorrectly assumed that I must be an expert at basketball and volleyball, but when the cat was out of the bag, I would hang my head in shame.