I mark this week, this month, this time, and I call it the time in-between.

The moment I realized I’ve given what is needed in so many ways.

The days I read books from start to finish while I listen for my kids, their sounds are off in the distance and I’m here in the living room, reading.

I’m reading an entire book that I’m hardly interested in, marking time on the days in-between.

I remember when we lost my eldest to her bedroom. How surprising it was because my teen years are so far behind me. How I pitched my young editor a story idea that talked about how our kids are in their rooms holding their beds up. How those rooms are their first apartments, cocooned within our homes. How she said to me, don’t you remember being a teen?

Oh, and now we’ve lost the second one to her bedroom.

My husband and I leave the house and head for the restaurant down the street. It doesn’t matter how late we stay out. No one is waiting for us.

I remember waiting for them. Waiting for my kids to arrive. Sitting on our purple couch, both times, both pregnancies. Sitting together waiting for our lives to change.

We sit together at the restaurant down the street. We talk about how we’re following their lead now. In so many ways, we’re watching for clues. Sure, they need some guidance, but it’s more of a circle than a straight line.

Of course, it’s not just this moment with the girls. It’s the leaving of my freelance life, turning a corner. I’m peeking around that edge, reading a book I’m barely interested in, marking time. Sliding through the in-between. Right in the middle of my life, life, life.