The neurologist showed me four obvious spots where my mother had experienced strokes. He explained that she had small vessel disease and that it was likely the cause of her cognitive decline.

The older I get, the less interested I am in deciding whether people are good or bad. I've learned that most of us are both.

In the years my mother lived near us, life found a rhythm.

By second grade, eczema affected nearly every part of my son's life—sleep, school, swimming, friendships, and even the foods he loved. As infections became more frequent and daily routines grew more complicated, I watched him face challenge after challenge with a bravery he didn't yet recognize in himself.

Today marks 36 years of marriage and 41 years together. When people hear those numbers, they may imagine we’ve somehow figured out the secret to a lasting marriage. They may imagine we’ve always agreed, always understood each other, or somehow avoided the struggles that come with sharing a life for more than four decades. When I think about those years, what comes to mind isn’t a secret.

As I've learned more about myself, I've also found myself sharing these lessons with my children. Not because I have all the answers. I don't. I still struggle. I still get stuck. But now I understand myself in ways I never did before. And that understanding has allowed me to help my children begin recognizing some of these patterns in themselves as well.

The last thing I wanted was for my mother to see me cry. I usually tried to hide my emotions because when I was upset, she often became upset too.

The days leading up to the funeral moved quickly, as if time had shifted into something both urgent and unreal.