I tugged on my gardening gloves, filled up the cornflower blue watering can, and dragged my stuff over to the square patches of dirt filled with little green leaves sprouting up and an occasional shock of color. Slowly, with methodical movements, I lowered my knees onto the twin cushions and began checking all the plants and herbs. The sun warmed my back through the cotton fabric, and the gorgeous rush of spring noises filled my ears. The wind in the trees, the scrabble of a squirrel, the shriek of a bird, the flutter of wings in the air, all combined to put me in that hypnotic state I craved because it seemed to be the only time my thoughts were clear. I didn’t sleep much anymore. I mourned the times I’d believed sleep was something I’d own forever—a precious commodity I always wanted more of when Frannie was young and Bagel craved a six a.m. potty break. I’d lie there on the fluffy pillow, stretch out, and dream of the day when I’d get a good nine or ten hours. I’d do anything to get that ability to sleep back, but it disappeared with all the other good stuff.

I dug in the dirt, snipped weeds, and began prepping the soil for my new additions of green beans. The pink gnome Frannie had given me when she was in second grade stared grumpily at me like an old friend. Bagel used to growl and bark at him, as if afraid he’d turn real, and a pang for my dog hit me in the gut, surprising me with its violence. He was a good dog, with a crooked ear and a goofy grin that made me smile. After Frannie left, he used to follow me from room to room, as if sensing I was the only person left to take care of him. Grief was funny that way. The moment you thought you’d beaten it, or at least made peace, it bashed you on the head during a warm sunny afternoon in your garden when you weren’t expecting it, then watched you bleed.

I worked for a while with no important thoughts other than getting ingredients prepped for dinner with Allegra and wondering whether Dancing with the Stars was on tonight—I always got my days mixed up—until my mind was strong enough to begin dealing with bigger problems.

My girls were in trouble.

I sensed it, just like I sensed something rotten growing inside me. After the conversation with Frannie, I realized I had expressed myself poorly again. I always thought birthing children would give me some type of wisdom to guide me. It didn’t, of course. Motherhood was a complicated maze of disappointments and failures, peppered with the occasional wave of pure love that made it all worth it.