I take Amtrak and Natalie meets me at the station. She shows me the law office where she works as an assistant to a couple of immigration lawyers. To my amazement, she has her own key to this beautiful building in Seattle's historic district.
She has her own desk, chair, and computer. Why doesn't my office look like this?
The next morning, we follow our usual routine and walk a couple of blocks from the apartment to Top Pot, Seattle's coffee shop famous for its donuts. You can buy Top Pot donuts at Starbucks in Portland, but that's different (disturbing) story.
Inside, Natalie sees a boy she knows from law school. Over coffee, they chat about torts, contracts, mitigating factors and discrete discretionary discretions.
Meanwhile at another table, Katie ponders the meaning of life.
That night, Natalie has a date with another boy from the law school. They attend a chamber orchestra concert while I take Katie and Boyfriend-Slave Mike out for Mexican food.
After dinner, the kids entertain themselves with the March edition of Cosmo while I sit on the couch with a book and pretend not to notice.
The next morning brings a brilliant sun-soaked sky, and things are looking up in the little apartment. Katie and the Boyfriend-Slave have left for a weekend track meet in Idaho. It's just me and Nat. I'm looking forward to a nice, relaxing day.
And then I notice the bathtub.
And the toilet.
I bring this up, not to embarrass my daughters, nor to motivate them and Boyfriend-Slave to clean up, but rather to point out that slimy bathrooms are a transition into adulthood. I recall a similar incident when I was about twenty-two and my mother visited me. Now my bathroom is generally clean, and this gives me hope for my children.
All the same, the bathroom has an impact on me. It's hard to get beautiful with all this mold. I decide to return to Portland early. I hope Larry won't mind.
