I’m Almost 50 and I Still Need My Mom

My mother once solved a crime. It was a late August morning, a gentle warm rain had left the air thick and humid. My mother, still in her gauzy nightgown, was baking her famous blueberry cupcakes, the ones that were sweet, but never cloying, and would stain your fingertips inky purple when you ate them.

There was a noise on the front porch, where my mom kept a huge turquoise ceramic pot teeming with roses and crape myrtle. Alarmed, but not afraid, she threw on her robe, raced to the door and ...