Most days I still think of calling my mother.
Today, for example, I imagine ringing her up, telling her I’m back at work on The Gauntlet, writing away. She always loved to hear that.
“Yes,” I’d tell her, “I’m writing about how devastated I’ve been since you died.”
My mom died on January 3, 2026.
A bunch of doctors gathered in the hallway outside her room to thank her for being an organ donor, reading a tribute written by my father. The doctors learned about her master’s degrees in math and music, and how she conducted our church choir for decades. They listened patiently as they learned she taught college and high school math classes for many years, how she took up painting after retirement, how she was a loving mother to two children: my brother Kevin, and me.
I was here in DC, still homebound, watching via Facetime on Kevin’s phone. A dear friend lay in bed with me while I sobbed, holding my hand. They removed all the life support. She breathed for one more hour.
Since January 3rd, I’ve read Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, The Mercy Papers by Robin Romm, A Heart that Works by Robb Delaney, A Very Easy Death by Simone de Beauvoir, The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, and The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.


