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I spent those days gardening, trying to pull the weeds of anxiety out of my mind along with the dandelions in my flower beds. I didn’t call, I didn’t text, and I certainly didn’t “stalk” his social media, though the temptation was a physical weight in my chest, a constant pressure behind my ribs. I had resigned myself to missing the most important day of his life because I didn’t want to be the “toxic mother” he was accusing me of being. Then, five days later, my phone buzzed on the nightstand at 2 a.m., the vibration sounding like a structural crack in the silence of the room, and I saw his name flash on the screen.
