Only my daughter, Laura, has the power to get me to eat a raw quail egg. We did so last Thursday night at our favorite sushi restaurant in Charlotte, N.C., where she lives. I was in town for a conference.
It's been five years since she moved away from home, and I think I've finally, finally, finally (maybe) stopped thinking of her as some wild feral child who needs me hovering over her, guiding her every move, breath, decision and thought.
She's 25 now, making more money than I am, finishing her fifth year of a two-year college, dating a guy who treats her well.
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