I live in Denver. My mother is in Hackensack. For two years I thought the hard part would be the flights.

The hard part was my phone. It would go off at four on a Wednesday and I would already know, and I would take it anyway, and it would be nothing. She wanted to tell me the mail came. And I would be short with her, and then hate myself the whole drive home.

I never told anybody that I had started to dread the sound of my own ringtone. It felt like proof that I did not love her enough.

It was not proof of anything. It was two years of being tired with nobody spelling me.

So if you are somewhere in that, snapping on the phone and hating yourself for it afterward, hear it from someone who has been there. You are not a bad daughter. You are not a bad son. You are carrying something heavy, and it is showing, and that is allowed.

She and I are all right now. You and yours will be too.