The American Scholar

These grown-up children—it was like discovering a new tribe, somewhere deep in the interior, one with a whole set of skills you had never acquired. There they all were, going steadily about their business, sending text messages, knitting sweaters, eating raw fish.

….She pictured her own daughter: a sweet-faced young woman with shiny hair, working in the development office at a museum, listening intently over miso soup. Or maybe tall and skinny, boldly transgressive, with spiky bleached hair, red high-top sneakers. Offhand, cool. In a rock band. Still, she’d be a friend. She’d teach Anne the difference between good and bad rap. Or whatever it was now.