I tried shopping once when we’d moved into our house in the suburbs. I was lucky that the Amazon stock boy who’d picked me up by the armpits so I could reach a humongous box of cereal didn’t think to keep carrying me. He’d asked me if I needed directions to the baby aisle. I panicked, went to the checkout line, paid for cereal, and made a new general rule: Don’t go to any Amazon store that readily sells diapers. Eating out a few times a year and bribing Tweener waitresses was about as brave as I got.
Normally, Cassie ordered everything online and had it dropped off at the doorstep. She’d gotten a security camera installed in our front door, and just waited until the coast was clear for one of us to pick something up.
It was safe. It was efficient. But it never felt normal.
