The last time she talked to me about signs was at a supervised visit at a park in Boston. I’d been in and out of foster care for four years by then, and my mom looked worse than I’d ever seen her. She was painfully thin, and I could tell she was having a hard time sitting still on the bench. I knew she was itching for a cigarette and I wished they’d let her go have one. She kept calling me “baby” and trying to smooth my hair, which I hated, and she kept telling me she was getting her life back together, that it was going to be me and her soon. She’d dropped out of a bunch of rehab programs already and I knew the state wouldn’t let me go back with her unless she got sober for at least a year and had her own apartment. I remember being annoyed with everything that day—my mom, the system, how long all of this was taking, even the dumb jokes she kept telling me that were making me laugh. How was it possible to be so frustrated with someone and still love them so much?

When our time was up, my mom cupped her hand under my chin and smiled at me, and maybe it’s just my brain trying to make our last moment together pleasant, but I like to think we had a nice moment. She’d said, “Remember, baby, we belong together. It will all work out for us. Keep watching for the signs; they’ll come in threes.” And then she walked to her car, her hand already reaching into her back pocket for a pack of cigarettes, her long black hair streaked orange with bleach. As she opened the car door, I caught sight of her tattoo, a pink pearl and shell she’d gotten in honor of her absolute favorite thing: mermaids.

Of course, I had no idea that this would be the last time I’d see her for years, but looking back at what I wrote in my star log that night, I wonder if I at least suspected it.