When I was twelve I asked my mother if she thought I would have a chance at someday being chosen for a shuttle mission. Her eyes immediately narrowed and her lips pressed tightly together like she was trying to hold back an explosion. Anxiety displayed itself as lines tightening across the corners of her mouth and it frightened, and guilted me.

Another question I shouldn't ask. Noted.

Sigh.

It wasn't that my mother's paralyzing fears about my discontented spirit finally broke my naturally adventurous curiosity, but I learned that the more complacent I appeared to be, the less likely people were to keep a watchful eye on me. If everyone assumed I finally accepted m...

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