The Ringtone

It is 4:30 on a Wednesday morning, and I am wide awake.

Actually, I barely slept at all.

In a few hours, I will board a plane to Denver to visit my daughter and my grandchildren. I should be sleeping. Instead, I have spent most of the night checking the clock, afraid I might oversleep and miss my flight. I even wore my Apple Watch to bed so I wouldn't miss an alarm.

The irony is not lost on me.

Years ago, when my daughter went into labor, I missed her call because my phone was on silent. I was asleep in an Airbnb.

When I woke up and saw the missed calls and messages, I was confused. I wondered why no one had called me.

It took about three seconds for reality to set in.

Oye.

They did call me.

My phone was on silent.

I was disappointed in myself. Deeply disappointed.

To this day, I cringe when I think about it.

Most people would probably call it an accident, and they would be right. But some moments carry more weight than others. This wasn't just a missed call. At least it didn't feel that way to me.

My daughter grew up during years when I struggled with addiction. There are parts of her childhood I would give anything to relive and moments I wish I could do differently. Recovery gave me a second chance at life. It did not erase the memories.

Sometimes I think mothers and daughters carry different versions of the same story. I remember loving her fiercely. She remembers the times I wasn't there. The truth is, we are both right.

Love doesn't erase absence. And absence doesn't erase love.

A while back, she pointed out that everyone in the family had their own ringtone except her.

At first, I wanted to explain. She rarely calls. I never got around to assigning one. There was no hidden meaning behind it.

But as I listened, I realized it was never about the ringtone. It was about feeling seen, feeling remembered, and feeling important.

And if I am being honest, that realization broke my heart. Because there has never been a day that my daughter wasn't important to me.

Not one.

Three years ago, she moved to Denver.

At the time, I thought the hardest part would be missing her.

I was wrong.

What I didn't expect was grieving the Bubbie I imagined I would be. I imagined running over to babysit at a moment's notice, helping with school pickups and soccer games, showing up with chicken soup when someone was sick, and stepping in when life became overwhelming. I imagined being close enough to matter in the small, ordinary ways families matter to one another.

But if I am being completely honest, there was something else too.

I imagined being there for my grandchildren in ways I wasn't always able to be there for their mother. Not because I was trying to erase the past. Nothing can do that. But because I wanted the opportunity to do better.

To be better.

Life had other plans.

Instead, I book flights. I count down the weeks between visits. I save every picture she sends. I treasure every FaceTime call.

And when I visit, I find myself watching my daughter more than anything else.

I watch her buckle a car seat, tugging on every strap to make sure it is secure. I watch her carry a baby on one hip while somehow managing the thousand little tasks that come with motherhood. I watch her patiently teach him to take the Sugar-Bugs out of his teeth. I watch her read stories, wipe tears, give hugs, and somehow keep moving even when she is exhausted.

I watch the way she looks at her children—with love, patience, and complete devotion—and I am in awe.

Sometimes I stand back quietly and think, "Look at this woman." Not my little girl. Not the teenager who rolled her eyes at me. Not the young woman trying to figure out her place in the world. This woman. This mother. This wife. This remarkable human being.

People often ask me if I am proud of my children.

Of course I am.

But pride isn't really the right word.

What I feel when I look at my daughter is admiration.

I admire the life she has built. I admire the mother she is. I admire her strength, her resilience, and the way she loves her family.

People see the version of me that goes to work, attends meetings, writes blogs, and keeps moving. They don't see the woman standing in the shower. The one who misses her daughter. The one who wishes Denver weren't quite so far away. The one who cries where no one can hear her.

Not every day.

But often enough.

Because love and regret can occupy the same space.

Because distance has a way of reminding us what matters most.

As always, the goodbye comes too quickly.

I have put my grandson down for his nap and cried for minutes afterward because I know I won't be there when he wakes up. My suitcase is by the door. Life is happening all around me.

I hug my son-in-law and my daughter and head to the curb to wait for my Uber. I don't want her to see me cry. I don't want to leave.

As I stand on the curb, I turn and take one last look. I see the beautiful life she has built. I see the mother she is, the wife she is, and most of all, the woman she has become. And I couldn't be more proud.

I get into the Uber and she comes running out with my Stanley cup. I nearly forgot it. We laugh.

Then I head back to Los Angeles.

She finally has her own ringtone now. It took me far too long.

And I can't wait to hear it.