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!”

“If we cancel Napa now, we lose the deposit. Three thousand dollars, David. Non-refundable.”

“My mother is gone and you’re worried about money?”

“She’s not gone.

She said she was in Venice, probably having some kind of episode at that Italian restaurant downtown.”

But I wasn’t at Bella Vista on J Street. I was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, looking down at an endless expanse of water and feeling something I hadn’t experienced in decades. Freedom.

As my plane descended toward Marco Polo Airport, my phone—which I had finally turned back on—exploded with notifications. Seventeen missed calls from David. Twelve from Jessica.

Twenty-three text messages ranging from concerned to furious to desperately pleading. The one that stopped my heart was from my youngest grandson, Tyler. Grandma, where are you?