The day before my 63rd birthday, I found out that my son had planned a trip and was leaving me behind to look after 18 children. I didn’t say anything at all. On my birthday itself, he called: “Mom, where are you?” I smiled: “Don’t worry … Venice is beautiful!”

I stood on my balcony that evening, watching gondolas drift beneath my window like elegant water dancers, and finally turned my phone back on. The voicemails were a journey through the stages of grief. David’s first message was confusion.

“Mom, this isn’t funny. Where are you really?”

By the fifth message, he’d reached anger. “This is incredibly selfish.

You can’t just walk away from your responsibilities.”

By the tenth message, bargaining. “Look, if you’re upset about something, we can talk about it when Jessica and I get back from Napa. Just come home and watch the kids like you promised.”

But it was the final voicemail that shattered something inside me.