I’m 66 and my adult son sent me a text last Sunday that just said “thinking of you, hope your weekend is nice” — and I read it four times trying to understand why it had landed so hard — and I finally realized it was because he wasn’t asking me for anything, he was just reaching, and I’d apparently reached a point in my life where being reached for without purpose felt like receiving a gift in a language I’d forgotten I spoke
I was sitting at the kitchen table Sunday afternoon, second cup of coffee going cold, when my phone buzzed. A ...
