It was a late-summer afternoon in Georgia and we were buckled in the backseat of our red Astro van on our way to piano lessons.
As we pulled out of the driveway, my mother announced that today, I would navigate us to the piano teacher's house, turn by turn.
I felt my cheeks flush as panic set in. "But I don't know how to get there!" I said, my tone escalating. "We're going to be late!" (Yes, this was me, even at the age of eight.)