My ten daughters left me alone on Christmas night. They said, “We have our own lives, Mom. Stop interfering.” By morning, their bank accounts were empty, and every house they were counting on was sold. My phone had 76 missed calls.

3:14 p.m. No messages.

4:23 p.m. No messages.

5:47 p.m. No messages.

Drove home.

6:52 p.m. No messages.

At 7:38 p.m., my phone finally buzzed.

Jeffrey: “Oh no. Are you okay? Need anything?”

I stared at the message.

Five hours.

I texted him back. “I’m home. Fractured wrist. They put me in a splint.”

“Ugh, that sucks,” Jeffrey wrote. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

That was it.

No, I’m coming over. No, do you need me to pick up your prescription. Just: let me know.

Abigail responded at 8:15 p.m.

Abigail: “OMG, Mom. I just saw this. Are you still at the hospital?”

Sharon: “No, I’m home now.”

Abigail: “I’m so sorry I didn’t see this earlier. My phone was in my purse. Are you okay?”

Sharon: “Yes, honey. Just a fracture. I’m fine.”

Abigail: “Okay, good. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She didn’t call tomorrow. Or the next day.

I sat on my couch that night, my wrist throbbing, looking at my phone, and I thought about Frank. When he’d been sick, I’d driven him to chemo three times a week, sat with him for four hours each time, held his hand when the nausea got bad, never missed a single appointment.

When he’d been in the hospital that last week, I’d slept in a chair next to his bed every night, and when he died, I’d been right there.