There was no one to tell. No one who’d appreciate it like she would have
It was about 2 a.m. local time when we pulled up at the hotel — if you could call it that — in Jacksonville, Florida, in all its glory. (Word to the wise: If you ever have the opportunity to visit this neck of the woods, do not stay there.)
That’s when it struck me. I should call her to let her know we arrived. Or text her.
It was a totally normal sentiment. A standard thing to do.
Mothers worry. Even about their (ahem, early) middle-aged, happily married, mother-of-her-own-children daughters. Sure, they go to bed, but they toss and turn and wonder where on the Eastern Seaboard you are and why on earth haven’t you texted yet?!
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