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My mother was a piece of work — brilliant, born in the wrong time, emotionally wounded, and kind. My dad stayed out of the way and supported us with his solid, unwavering presence. But my mother, with her invasive curiosity, almost pathological capacity for empathy, and demand for excellence, even while passing on her sense of inadequacy and deficiency, shaped the outlines of my character. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to color inside those lines. I miss her greatly.

I don’t care who you are or what your feelings about your mother are, your umbilical link to her still remains. If she’s still alive, reach out. If she has passed, shed a quiet tear for all the things you left unsaid. This is her day. You wouldn’t be here without her.