“I wish I could remember the square dancing,” Molly says. “Not the assisted living place.”

I wish that, too. Even though I know it’s irrational, I feel irritated at Molly because she doesn’t remember my mother the way I want her to. I want her to recall the funny singing voice, the strong hands with their faint smell of onion, the perfect bulb of hair held slick with Aqua-Net. I want Molly to miss that woman, even though I understand it’s impossible.

“How did she die?” Molly asks. “You never talk about that.”

“Ask me how she lived. After all, that’s what she spent most of her life doing.”

“You talk about that all the time,” Molly notes. “And I do love hearing the stories, Mom. But you’ve made her into this Disney grandma who’s barely real to me.”

“She got pneumonia and was too weak to fight it.” I smooth my hand over the fading calico. “She died early one morning when you were in fourth grade. I didn’t tell you right away because you had a school party that day. I didn’t want to ruin it for you. So I waited until you got home.”

Molly is quiet for a minute, sipping her tea, staring out across the lake, where the wind whips up white tufts in the water. Wrapped in a blanket someone at the restaurant gave her, she looks little and lost. But there is a sharpness in her eyes. “You were always cushioning me, Mom.”

“It’s what mothers do.” I wish my own mother could see this young woman now, vibrant and excited about her future. My dad, who has grown quiet and slow with age and loneliness, often tells me he wishes that, too.

“It didn’t work,” she says, not looking at me. “I knew, anyway. I could tell from the way you rushed me off to car pool. I was scared to say anything because I didn’t want to see you cry.”

This shocks me. Dan and I had been prepared; Mom’s doctors had let us know her death was imminent, even offering signs and markers to watch for. For me, the sense of loss was so overwhelming that I hadn’t been able to talk about it.

Even now, years later, it’s still hard. There is something about losing your mother that is permanent and inexpressible—a wound that will never quite heal.

“I had a rotten day at school that day,” Molly explains. “Hated the party. There were these awful cupcakes, and the games were lame. So it’s not like you spared me anything.”

“Moll, I never realized you knew what was going on that day.”

“Nope. You didn’t. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset you. We were both trying to protect each other, and it didn’t work.”

I draw the thread to the end and make a tiny, invisible knot before cutting it free. “How did you get so smart?”

“Must’ve inherited it from my mother. We’d better get going.” She drinks the last of her tea, combs her hair again. The breeze is reviving her curls. She stands up and folds the blanket. She waves a thank-you to the waiter and he hurries over to our table.