Don’t mistake a red lightsaber for love, and other life advice I’ve given my daughter

​At five, Leia tumbled off her bike. I said, “Do or do not. There is no try.” My own Jedi training was my Sith-Lord husband.
At ten, Leia said her letters scrambled while reading. He said, “Always with you, it cannot be done.” After her dyslexia diagnosis, I divorced him.
Leia’s force awakened at fifteen with Kylo-Ren boyfriends. Piercings. Backchat. Tantrums.
At twenty-three, she gravitated home after her Lando-fiancé fired his rocket outside their galaxy.
“It’s like lightsabers,” I consoled. “His was red.”
“Mom, not now-” Leia sniffed.
“And you deserve blue.”
We hugged. Knowledge passed on, I have.

Cole Beauchamp​