FOUR YEARS LATER
WYOMING, UNITED STATES.
NATALIE SINGER.
“Sit your f—fine bum down on your seat Eleanor!” I half-yelled at my four-year-old daughter who was the most enthusiastic and restless kid I’d ever seen in my life.
“Language Nat, language,” my grandma scolded with a subtle chortle, and my granddad cleared his throat a little too loud from where he sat on the dinning reading today’s newspaper.
I rolled my eyes and continued packing the kids lunch box. I could never scold my kids because their great grandparents are always playing Grannies in Shining Armor whenever I try. They even understood Eleanor more than I did because they somehow knew how to keep her under control.
She had so much energy, so much to that it seemed she couldn’t even control it. Her home-room teacher ha
