How many days or weeks or months would have to pass in such a manner before it would be called abandonment? And what if I just . . . didn’t go home? What if I stayed and was driven mad by the distance between what I am—a mother—and what I am trying to be—an artist? I missed my son and felt off-kilter. I missed my son and felt happy. My arms yearned to hold him. At the same time, I dreamed idle dreams about buying a truck and driving off into Mexico. Horizons were shifting.
