I never asked how she was doing. It was half past two in the morning.

I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking.

It wasn't the grief that kept me awake. It was a sentence I couldn't get out of my head.

I never asked how she was doing.

Not once in the last years. I always asked about practical things. Whether she had eaten. Whether she needed help with anything. But never a simple: "How are you, Mom?"

I thought I had time. Everyone thinks they have time.

I got up and sat at the same kitchen table where she used to sit. I lit a candle. I stayed there in the dark with my cup of coffee, thinking about all the times I had cut a call short. All the times I said "I'll call you back..." and forgot.

She never complained.

And that is what hurts the most. If she had complained I would have something to hold onto. Something to defend myself with. But she was simply happy to hear my voice. However short the call was.

That night I started writing. To no one in particular. Just to get it all out.

And then I went back to making jewelry.

Not because it helped. But because I needed to do something with my hands while my head wouldn't stop.

The first piece I made that night was never meant to be sold. It was for her. It still sits in a small box in my drawer.

Sometimes I open it. Just to remind myself that in the end I did tell her.

Too late. But I told her.

— Susan