For a long time coming, I had a feeling that life, my life would change. A bit of a cliché sentence, for an opening sentence, it might seem, but the heck with it, I knew what I knew. I could feel deep down that something was going to shift, something would come off. I almost prayed that it might come sooner, the tornado of a shift this feeling precipitated.

I wanted to tell my children of this sensation that became a day’s companion but I felt foolish. Why did they need to know; I never heard anything about their hunches. Not in a long time, anyway. Perhaps since they were teenagers. I am not stupid, I get the generation gap and all the hullabaloo that it brings forth. I just, well, to tell you the truth, I miss it, all of it, the shouts, the screams, the murmurs, the confessions, the feeling of being there, in their lives. A part.

Back to the sensation that is, my gut feeling. I’ve had it a while, almost a year. First I thought that it might have something to do with menopause, but I’ve rocked that boat a long time ago. Then, I was afraid that something would crack, a bone, a tendril, a heart beat. But after the second operation and the sixth chemotherapy, I’ve vowed to give up on the health worry – what is to come, is to come. And then, it dawned on me. Like a stealth image of a sinking: the sinking of a dream. I knew, that awful September night, that it had everything to do with my daughter, our wallflower. My late husband liked pet names; it made him feel complete, to be surrounded by a garden: with me as his rose, Jacob as the ever-hanging birch, and our youngest, a gentle lilac. Our own wallflower.

I rushed out of bed, and despite my gut feeling, which welled inside, a volcano in the making, called her on the phone. I am aware that young people keep strange hours when it comes to bedtime and visits, but there was something improper about calling her after midnight. It took four rings. As I was about to hang up, a voice, a man’s voice answered. The man she’d been living with for the past seven years, a polite hick she felt I disapproved off greatly. His manners, she was under the impression, insulted my Roman Catholic upbringing. She was wrong, the way young people are wrong about those old ones, who love them, fully. But who was I to intrude on this misconstrued belief. At least it gave us something to talk about on her monthly visits.

Randy, it’s Rosemary. I wonder if I… - I sensed that he gave over the receiver. He did not like the interruption. As all polite hicks, he pretends to be insulted by the absence of intrusion. He’s waiting for the sky to open, and the heavens to thunder an apology, for his lousy childhood, bad complexion, hair loss. It’s her choice, and I have taken time to learn to live with it, with him.

Mom, what’s wrong? My daughter’s drowsy baritone creaks on the other end. Why are you up so late? She beckons.

I hesitate. These things, these strong guttural feelings are difficult to share, almost impossible. I should have thought this true, I’d like to scold myself. If only I could afford myself some time to ponder over the sensation. What I need to tell her, what she needs to hear, it is not easy. It’s never easy to tell your child that you know. That you know them, all of them; that there is no mystery to unfold, no niche to be scavenged. They are a complete utterance. And it is ok.

I go against my instinct, I hide my feeling. I say – Oh, darling, I just felt like hearing your voice. Hope I didn’t wake you up. I know how you like your late movies. Are we still on for the weekend?

She growls. I know that know, and I accept. Out of the polite subterfuge of her upbringing and schooling, instead, she answers: It’s alright mother. You can always call in to say hi. Got to get back to sleep. Tomorrow is a work day.

I stay on the line for another moment, a breath’s pause. A little eternity in its own right. It’s my second unsuccessful attempt to tell her, all I know. I chicken out – she gets that after me, the timidity under pressure. (of all my qualities, I unfavorably passed on the last thing I ever wish upon another human thing. Genetics, hell of a thing). I falter, as predicted, and add in a heartbeat: See you Sunday. Give my love to Randy. And the receiver is done. In a flash.

For a long time coming, I’ve lived with this. I’ve known this. And now, as I am putting it down in words, I cannot see how I had it tucked away for such a long time. I know my daughter. I know my son. I miss my husband. It is time to let them know, all of this knowledge before it’s too late. Before they all decide to abandon me for something, someone greater, louder, happier. I make myself a promise; have to put it in writing before I retort to more fear. I promise to tell her, my wallflower, all about it, next weekend.

I promise to tell her – it’s ok to be mediocre. It’s ok. Now.