If They Called Tomorrow

When love remains, even across silence

People often assume that because I dream of living aboard a sailboat, it must be the greatest desire of my heart.

It isn't.

Don't misunderstand me. I long to sail. I long to wake to the gentle rocking of LunaKai at anchor, to hear the birds through an open hatch, and to feel the cool morning breeze drifting across the water.

That dream is real.

But if my children called tomorrow and said, "Mom, we want you in our lives," I wouldn't hesitate.

I would choose them.

Not because the sailing dream means less.

But because they mean more.

There is a quiet grief that many parents carry. We continue living, smiling, working, dreaming, and making plans while a small part of our heart quietly waits.

It waits for a phone call. A conversation. A hug. A chance to simply be Mom again.

Last night I dreamed about my mother and my daughter, Angela.

In the dream they wouldn't speak to me. They believed lies about me, and no matter what I said or did, I couldn't convince them otherwise. I woke with a feeling I know all too well...

Helplessness.

Perhaps that's what grief often feels like—not just losing someone through death, but loving someone who is still here while knowing you cannot force reconciliation.

You can pray.

You can hope.

You can leave the light on.

But you cannot make another person walk through the door.

So I continue preparing LunaKai.

I continue writing.

I continue dreaming.

Not because I've replaced my family with a boat, but because life is still a gift, even while carrying unanswered prayers.

If the phone rings one day, I'll answer.

If reconciliation comes, my heart has never stopped making room for it.

Until then, I'll keep living, loving, hoping, and trusting that some stories are still being written.

Because hope isn't pretending everything is okay.

Hope is believing that tomorrow may tell a different story than today.