In the mirror, alone, I practiced. Mom. Mom. Mom. Not someone’s mom—which is a role, a new relationship—but a total shift in identity, the implication that you morph into this other thing. Mom. It becomes the call to which you must respond most often. And how odd it feels to suddenly go by a name you had used for someone else, like donning an old overcoat worn by every woman you know and hoping it somehow fits you, too.
