The truth is, she may have finally made vice president, but she’s had a lot of victories that make her promotion look minor in comparison. She started going to therapy not long after I left. She returned to her old Stitch & Bitch group, which she talks about a lot. She’s even coordinating an effort to knit blankets for a local women’s shelter. I’m happy for her even though I still worry. I know she still struggles with routines, based on the times I sometimes receive her emails or texts, and occasionally I hear the familiar sound of window latches or catch her counting under her breath while we’re on the phone. But she’s working on herself. She often tells me she misses me, but these days it usually sounds more loving than frantic.

And although there are many things I am enjoying here, I miss her, too.

Down the street I pause in front of the pub, feeling a little surge of nervousness. A few clusters of people are already gathered outside, standing around near the entrance and enjoying the “nice” weather. Dad hasn’t ever sent me to the pub by myself before, and though I’ve gotten used to our customary post-work pints on Fridays, it still feels strange to go to a bar when I’m only eighteen.

I step inside and walk up to the counter to order. The place smells like old wood and wet wool under subtle notes of stale beer and frying fish. While I wait for service, I take a moment to be conscious of my feet resting on the worn wooden floor, how I’m rooted to the ground, reminding myself to put my heart where my feet are. It’s something Mom told me she’s been trying to do lately. It helps her handle anxiety over new experiences, or to come back to the present when she needs to stop thinking about the past or the future.

It’s a new thing, that: the notion that a heart belongs where you set down your feet, where you are in a moment. For her, not in the past, in a baby book on the bottom shelf in her office, or some fear-stained version of the future in which something terrible happens to me. For me, not perpetually lost in daydreams, wishing I were somewhere else or trying to disappear.

The bartender I like best finally comes over to take my order. She smiles when she sees me. Today she’s wearing a Planet Quest T-shirt, and her long hair is in a messy side bun. She seems to be perpetually trying out some new hair color. Today it’s fading indigo, like she dipped her hair in the twilight sky. She can’t be more than a few years older than me — maybe a student at university. She looks like she studies art, but I’ve never asked.