See, I always thought I’d be an adult when I … got married, bought my house, had a kid, had a certain job, blah blah blah.  Every time I did those things, I didn’t really feel like an adult.  Like, I’m a grown woman, I’m 44, I am well aware of my age … but “adulthood” is a whole other thing than being old.

No, what makes me feel like an adult is my husband being told he has diabetes.  Or myself being prescribed blood pressure medication.  Talking to a friend about the best adult care facility for his parents.  Talking to another friend about her fibro and the charitable organization she set up in her mother’s name.  Sending even yet another friend book recommendations for when she has chemo.  And so on, and so on.


Published by Laura E. Price

I read (you can check out my Goodreads if you want; it's linked on my blog). I write (I’ve been published in Cicada, On Spec, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Betwixt, Metaphorosis, Gallery of Curiosities, The Cassandra Project; the stuff that’s available online is linked on my blog). I plan for the inevitable zombie apocalypse and welcome the coming of the gorilla revolution. Or the anarchist rabbits. Whichever happens first. (I also blame my husband for basically everything.)

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