Leaving the real estate nest

Letters From the Home Front

My daughter had a monumental crisis on her hands this week. It seems that a certain feline we call Fluffy (and who, for the record, isn’t) had chewed through her iPod earphones again.

"Get me new ones!" my daughter wailed.

And in that moment, she’s like a real estate agent working in the ’90s.

Back in the ’90s, her broker would have immediately shoved aside everything he was doing at that moment, like gazing smugly at the production board or interviewing a new daughter, and dutifully rushed to give her what she needed.