I wish that I had some great and tragic love story. Perhaps a lover who had been ripped from me by society's rigid circles of class and wealth; that I, a lowly writer, with a devout love of nature and quick wit, had attracted a gentleman of good fortune. But his belligerent grandmother would never approve of such a match, and so we were forced to meet in secret under the solitude of the night’s sky, to clasp palms and whisper dreams... But alas, mine is a story of the 21^st century, one of timidly bread men, ill equipped to commit.

You know, maybe that’s what it is, maybe it’s that love no longer has to develop in the face of hardship.  Maybe our lives are too easy, and thus love evades us.  If I were an undiscovered milkmaid living out my life in a quiet country vale, or a tragically oppressed maiden locked in a menacing castle tower – than I’d have something to work with.  But instead I’m just a registered nurse, with a college degree and a retirement savings plan.  Nothing tragic here.  And clearly, nothing worth fighting for.  Maybe if I had to be cut free, or kissed awake, or pulled from some burning abbey - some man would find heroism in his unimpassioned heart, and step up to the challenge.  But, why would anyone go out of his way to save me from a life of success and happiness?  

“2 o’clock!” I snap up right, and grab my phone. One missed call. “Oh no!” I catapult out of bed, and pull on some clothes from off the floor. What have I done? No time to berate myself now. I pull my hair into a ponytail, push my feet into my shoes, and fly down the five flights of stairs to my car. Traffic always seems to be in the way, when I’m in a rush – all other drivers seem to be ignorant, slow, and selfish – I refrain from honking my horn, and drive carefully, because I know that’s what she’d want.

Twenty minutes later I pull up to the LDS temple in Bellevue - and there she is. Sitting poised, on a cold hard bench, in the rain, with her bags at her feet. I groan - as I realize, for the 67^th time since I woke up this morning, that I am the world’s most neglectful and selfish daughter. How could I have slept through picking up my Mom? And she’s come all this way to visit.

When she sees me, she smiles, picks up her bags, and greets me enthusiastically. She’s not angry. She figured I was probably asleep – especially after having worked hard all night. It would be very difficult to respond to an alarm when your body’s so exhausted. And that’s my Mom – why worry about herself, when she can worry about me?

I’m such a disgrace.

I mean, what happens to forgotten mothers, is it the same as for lost children? If I’d never shown, would someone have tried to help her find my house? Would a nice police officer have taken her to the precinct, and let her draw pictures until they got wind of someone searching for her? Poor Mom. Left to fend for herself in cold, wet Seattle.