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!”

watching her husband pace frantically while shouting into his phone. “She can’t just disappear.

Mom doesn’t disappear. She doesn’t even go to the grocery store without telling someone.”

The first wave of children had already arrived. Rebecca showed up at eight-thirty with her four kids and a minivan full of overnight bags, expecting to find me ready with my usual warm smile and fresh-baked cookies.

Instead, she found David’s house in chaos and my home completely empty. “Where’s Mom?” Rebecca demanded, her perfectly straightened blonde hair starting to frizz with stress. “The babysitter was supposed to start an hour ago.”

“She’s not a babysitter,” David snapped.

“She’s our mother.”

But that’s exactly what I’d become, wasn’t it? The unpaid, unappreciated babysitter who was supposed to be available whenever anyone needed her, whose own needs never seemed to matter. Jessica, meanwhile, was making calculations in her head, the kind of cold, practical calculations she was famous for in our family.