dear Mom: it's Sunday night.

Dear Mom,

It's Sunday night, and I can't stop thinking about you. Rowan is sick (just cough and cold, because I know you'd ask), and you know how that makes me get all worried and hand-wringy. She's only been in bed for two hours, and I've already had to go back up to cuddle her after she coughed herself awake and started crying. She's coughing again right now, and I just laid her back down.

It's Sunday night, and Rowan being sick isn't the only reason you're on my mind. It's partially because I miss your voice and humor and perspective, and it's (selfishly) because I'm having a total life crisis - about big stuff, like jobs and money and having more babies - and I really need your advice. Can I just...call you for a minute?

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On Sunday nights long ago, you'd have made sure I finished my homework, packed my school bag, and laid out my clothes for the next day. You'd have sent us to bed a half an hour ago, but we'd be making trouble in our room for another hour or so...until you came back in and used all your patented Mom Tricks (and Mom Threats) to make us go to sleep.

On Sunday nights more recently, you'd call me to let me know "The Wizard of Oz" was on TBS again, and to ask how work was going or if I'd picked out which dresses I wanted you to buy for Rowan. You'd tell me stories about your coworkers that would have me in tears, I'd be laughing so hard, and then I'd hang up the phone feeling much better about facing my Monday.

On Sunday nights in the future, here's what I imagine would happen: I'd call you the night before Rowan started kindergarten, probably crying and emotional, and you'd bring me back to earth and remind me of all the reasons why her first day of school would be amazing and so good for her. Or I'd call you on a Sunday night in the future because I was totally bogged down with housework and PTO meetings and carpool schedules, and you'd regal me with stories of juggling five kids and all their sports, friends, issues, and needs. Or I'd call you on a Sunday night in the future to confirm plans for the birthday party, the Thanksgiving dinner, the Christmas gift exchange, the Mother's Day brunch, and I'd know - because I always knew, almost never took for granted - how lucky I was to have my mother in my life. And to have that mother be you.

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But this is my Sunday night instead.

...Listening to Rowan's ragged cough over the baby monitor, just waiting for the wail that's bound to follow one of her episodes, knowing there's nothing I can do to help her but hold her.

...Clicking around the Internet, wondering why a legal get-rich-quick scheme hasn't made itself known to me yet, calculating how much longer we have until we're flat out of money, and tumbling down a rabbit hole of regret over completely ditching my career.

...Checking my phone periodically for another text from Dad, hoping fervently that he'll somehow get through this next year - and all the rest - without you.

...Vacillating between ignoring and dwelling on the thought that weighs heaviest on my mind: That this is it. This is what the rest of my life looks like - missing you, remembering you, smiling about you but not with you. And wishing it weren't like this. And grinning when I realize you would love that I knew to use weren't and not wasn't in that last sentence. And acknowledging the pit in my stomach that waxes and wanes (but mostly waxes), the anxiety that builds and flourishes and has no built-in boundaries. And wondering if this is the new theme in my life: wanting what I know I can't have, and only being able to imagine what you'd say about...everything.

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This Sunday night, it's a rough one. It's empty. It's terrifying. It's me, grieving.