“Yes, that’s a problem, isn’t it?” I said.

“A huge problem,” she muttered, as she returned to the display. She was quiet for a long time, and I’d made it through most of the rest of the room taking notes on what they had and thinking about how I could weave this into my future history lessons. When I looked up again, I saw Nina staring up at a photo of a group of women who were standing in front of loom inside the BMC.

“I wonder where they came from and what happened to them,” Nina said softly. “I wonder what their hopes and dreams were.”

“I think you’ve just gotten to the heart of what’s behind museums, Nina,” I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. “They’re here to make us remember, and to wonder about who came before us and how they lived their lives.”

“It’s pretty amazing when you look at it that way, isn’t it?” she said, turning to look at me.

“It’s exactly why I wanted to teach History,” I nodded.

“I can totally see why you would want to do that,” she said, looking back up at the picture. “People’s lives need to matter, but man, these clothes are a trip!”

I laughed as I nodded in agreement and then watched as Nina studied the pictures carefully. I didn’t know what she was thinking exactly, but I could guess that there were a lot of things going through her mind, so I left her with them as I explored a section of the collection that laid out the history of the Boston Manufacturing Company and explained how it had expanded over the years to include textiles, paper, and a range of technological developments. Before I knew it, the shadows grew longer and dusk set in.

Burt returned just as we were getting ready to call it a day, and asked if we’d seen everything we needed to see.

“We’ve seen more than what we needed to see,” Nina said. “Thank you for showing me the history of this city.”

“I’m glad you got to see it,” Burt smiled, as he ushered us out of the gallery. “It’ll be opening next month, and you’re welcome to come back anytime and visit!”

Nina and I shook his hand and walked out of the museum and back to my car. I stopped and picked up dinner for us at a local deli, and then drove back to the house. Nina didn’t say much on the drive home or over dinner, and I was starting to worry about whether I’d done the right thing taking her to the museum.

“Ms. Fowler,” she said.

“How about you call me Emily when we’re not in school?” I suggested. “Otherwise it’s going to get a little weird.”

“Okay, Emily, how did you know you wanted to be a History major?” she asked, as she picked at the coleslaw on her plate. “Are your parents historians?”

“Oh goodness, no,” I said, caught off guard by Nina’s question. “My parents are definitely not academics, well, not the way your grandparents are. They’re smart people, but they don’t completely understand why I do what I do.”

“You mean they disapprove?” Nina asked.

“Yes, but they act as if they don’t,” I said, trying to think of a way to escape having to explain my family to her. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to get into the truth. “They’re very wrapped up in the way they see the world, and it doesn’t leave a lot of room for anything that is different.”

“Yeah, like my mom,” Nina said glumly. “She wants me to do what she wants me to do, and when I don’t, she gets mad.”

“Like what?” I asked warily. I didn’t know Remy at all, and since I spent my work days surrounded by teenagers, I knew that sometimes their views on parental behavior were shaped by faulty logic and teenage angst.

“Like she wants me to wear designer dresses and apply to Ivy League colleges,” Nina sighed.

“And you don’t want to do either?”

“I don’t mind dresses, but I like the ones I can find at the thrift stores, you know?” she said, looking at me expectantly. When I nodded, she continued, “It’s like when she and my dad split up, she became a totally different person, and now she wants me to be a totally different daughter, too.”

“It’s hard for parents to adjust to their kids growing up,” I said, with as much neutrality as I could muster. “Your mom just wants what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to live her life,” Nina muttered. “I want to live my own life. I want to do things my way, and follow my own dreams.”

“Sometimes it’s hard for parents to see that,” I agreed, thinking of my own parents. “I guess the best path is to be kind and try to understand what they’re feeling and then move forward on your own path.”

Nina took a bite of her sandwich and chewed as she thought about what I’d said. I didn’t want to encourage her to do anything rash, but I also knew the weight of parental expectations could feel crushing, and if you gave into it, it could be devastating.

“Think of it this way,” I said. “Parents were teenagers once, too. So, they are only doing what it is they learned how to do. Sometimes that’s a good thing, like with your dad, I think, and sometimes that’s a little harder, like with your mom. The best bet is to try to talk to her and explain how you’re feeling without being angry or defensive. Who knows, she might understand!”

“I doubt it,” Nina said glumly. “She doesn’t understand anything about me.”

“Give it time,” I said, reaching out and patting her arm. “Sometimes they take a little longer to come around.”

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