You asked if my oldest daughter was with me this summer. Or the middle one. Or the youngest one.
Your shoulders dropped two inches when I said no. That they were in other cities, working other jobs. Not here, babysitting, just when you needed one.
I said I was sorry, that I would tell them you said hello, and you rode away.
But afterwards, I couldn’t forget the droop in your posture. You looked hot, tired, overwhelmed.
And I wished I had said what I am thinking now: I’ll watch your kids for you.
Because I miss mine. And someday, you’ll miss yours too.
Mom on the porch