There was no one to tell. No one who’d appreciate it like she would have

I should really call my mother.

It was about 2 a.m. local time when we pulled up at the hotel — if you could call it that — in Jacksonville, Florida, in all its glory. (Word to the wise: If you ever have the opportunity to visit this neck of the woods, do not stay there.)

That’s when it struck me. I should call her to let her know we arrived. Or text her.

It was a totally normal sentiment. A standard thing to do.

Mothers worry. Even about their (ahem, early) middle-aged, happily married, mother-of-her-own-children daughters. Sure, they go to bed, but they toss and turn and wonder where on the Eastern Seaboard you are and why on earth haven’t you texted yet?!

So, it’s utterly normal to text your mom to let her know you arrived safe and sound, even if it’s 2 o’clock in the morning.

Except when it’s not.

Because the last time I texted my mother or called her was, well, more than six years ago.

Because more than six years ago I was at the hospital with my father and brothers, standing by her bed, when she passed away.

Not that I stopped wanting to call her. For a while, it felt abnormal not to be able to call her, text her, talk to her.

It started from shivah. Sitting in her house, hosting all these people — and she was nowhere to be found — felt so strange. Any minute now she should emerge from the kitchen, tray of food in hand: “Who’s hungry?”

But she never did.

“Ma, can you believe Aviva drove in?”

“And Shana came on Motzaei Shabbos and headed straight back to the airport right afterward?”

There was no one to tell. No one who’d appreciate it like she would have.