The car has always been a place for storytelling in our family. I think it’s where each of my girls first became writers, composing stories in the air. Bits and pieces fly from the backseat to the front seat and back again. It’s where the girls vie for my attention, each eager to be the first to tell me about their day. They try to wait their turn, but inevitably someone interrupts before another story is done.

This past spring, Wren and I were driving home from a long weekend filled with dance. Usually, by the end of a competition weekend, everyone’s best energy has been spent. I could feel the tension in the air and knew I had to tread lightly.

“I kept trying to figure out that wave dance,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

I bit my lip, waiting for Wren’s reaction.

She immediately sat up straight and turned to look at me.

“Oh, I had it all figured out,” she said, launching into her interpretation of the dance with all the dramatics of a skilled storyteller.

As she spoke, I found myself marveling at the glimpse into her mind. Lately, our conversations have shifted from make-believe worlds to homework, dance schedules, and plans with friends. But in that moment, I realized that storyteller was still there. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude, not just for the story she shared, but for the reminder that this part of her hadn’t disappeared. It had simply been waiting for the right invitation.

A few weeks later, after another long dance weekend, I threw out the bait again. “I don’t know if I get that Elite Tap number… Do you have a story for that one?”

Once again, Wren was filled with renewed energy.

“I have a story for all of the dances,” she said. “In that one, you know how they clap a lot? Well, Avery is new to the village, and the rest of them are teaching her how to catch flies. In the end, she finally gets it, and they accept her into their village.”

I laughed, imagining the clapping as catching flies. Suddenly, the dance had new meaning.

Wren went on to share the stories behind nearly every competition dance we’d seen that season. Once again, the car was filled with stories, bouncing from one seat to the other, just like it always had been.