We started off slow, in the church parking lot. From there, we graduated to an elementary school, then a community college and, finally, the open road. Yes, I am giving my 16-year-old daughter driving lessons. She’s doing fine; good, even; great, really. It’s me who’s struggling. It’s not that she’s terrifying me; it’s that she’s not doing anything to terrify me at all, ever, and yet I’m jammed with fear and anxiety anyway. I expect her to be herky-jerky on the brakes and put me halfway through the windshield. When I think she should slow down, I mash my right foot into the floorboard, and my right hand just about rips the grab handle off the car ceiling as I tell her as gently as I can, “Brake, BRA-ke, BRAKE BEFORE WE ALL DIE, BRAKE!” She has never come close to running a red, never come close to rear-ending a car, never done anything remotely justifying my reaction. Every single time, she stops early and gently, and yet I kept flipping out anyway. “I am braking,” she finally said,...
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