“Catherine, Andrew and I are going to see Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Do you want to come?”
“No thanks, Mom,” I said. At seven years old, I was just beginning to develop my sense of cynicism, and for some reason, my cynicism said that this Harry Potter movie everyone was going on about was stupid.
My mother was of course quite perplexed. “Are you sure, Catherine?” she asked, while frowning over my brother’s shoelaces.
“I’m sure,” I said. I picked up a stuffed cat, a present from Christmas, and began to toss it up and down. It purred as I did so.
A little boy just exiting toddlerhood ambled out of the kitchen. “Can I go, Mommy?” my younger brother asked, looking up at her with dark brown puppy dog eyes.
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