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1 | Drop-Off SASHA

On my walk to school, there’s a mother with red hair. I see her every morning.

We exchange looks, in silent kinship, over our kids’ heads. Triumphant looks. Tortured looks. Looks, though I don’t know her name.

She is my barometer for the day. My Weather Channel. My forecast of what’s to come.

Only, instead of two, she has too many kids—and a very large dog, who also has red hair.

On good days, she walks him with swagger. On bad days, he walks her.