Squid Summer: A Mother Cuts the Apron Strings

T he best kinds of stories about your kids are those that you wouldn’t remember unless you wrote them down. In 1993 Adam was 13 and we had just given him permission to go places on his own.

The summer season began when the squid started to bite. I knew it had come when Adam’s clothing got all mucked up with ink and slime. His hands would be stained black. This began happening every day.