I'm awake before the dogs.

That sentence still surprises me to write. For thirty years it would have read like a horror story — if I was awake before the dogs, something was wrong. A child had a fever. Someone had a flight. The fridge had died in the night. Now it just means I got up first.

The news is on low. The coffee is hot. The kitchen is the right kind of quiet.

I'm thinking about lasagna.

Once a month the boys come over for dinner. Tonight's the night. Lasagna is what I landed on this time. Two of my three sons live within twenty minutes of me. So does my mom. James will pick her up on his way and bring Gabrielle, his wife. By six o'clock the kitchen will be loud and full and a little chaotic, and there will be more dishes than there is counter.

But that's tonight. Right now there is only the sauce I haven't started, the noodles I will boil too many of, and the soft shape of an afternoon I get to use however I want.

The nest is empty. That's the truth of most days now. Coffee, the news, my own thoughts, a book I'm working on — a whole life that is mine, which is good, and quiet, and sometimes a little too much of both.

But once a month, I get to feel like a mom again.

Not the running-on-fumes mom. Not the find-your-shoes mom. The mom who layers the noodles and the sauce and the cheese. The mom who sets the table for grown-up children and the woman who grew them up before that. The mom who has people coming.

I don't think I miss the old version exactly. That version was tired. But I miss the use of myself. The being-needed. The being-the-center-of-something.

Once a month, I get it back for a few hours. That's a fair trade.

The dogs are starting to stir. The house will follow. I'll start the sauce when I'm ready.

— Michelle