Years ago, my mom flushed my favorite stuffed animal, a little white tiger that probably came with a Happy Meal, down the toilet.

I was, more than likely, in the bathroom watching her French braid her hair in the mirror, just like she did every morning, weaving her auburn Years ago, my mom flushed ye Years go, my mom flushed my favorite stuffed animal—a little white tiger that probably came with a Happy Meal—down the toilet. I was, more than likely, in the bathroom watching her French braid her hair in the mirror, just like she did every morning—weaving her auburn strands against her scalp. It mesmerized me. So, when she flushed the toilet, I was so busy staring at her woven, gleaming braid I didn’t even realize I dropped the stuffed toy until it was too late—the tide had swept it away forever.

Years later, after watching my younger brother perform in a theater production of The Velveteen Rabbit, which left both of us in tears, my mom and I were in the farmhouse kitchen I grew up in, her in front of the sink, me sitting at the table sipping a glass of ice water from a faded plastic cup from Dickey’s Barbeque.

She told me about when she was a little girl, and her mom threw away her favorite stuffed animal because she thought it was too worn out and it needed to be thrown out.

I didn’t remember, but she said she cried the day she flushed my poor toy down the toilet. She said she desperately reached for it, but it was too late.

We both felt tears sting our eyes. I felt my heart reaching for her for the first time in years, its arms stretched out, waiting for her to fill them.

My mother is the type of woman everyone reaches for. My father reaches for a stable body, someone to lean on.

My 13-year-old brother, diagnosed with diabetes at age 5, reaches to her for health, for his next breath, next day.

My grandmother reaches for an open ear, always listening.

I used to reach for her beauty. These days, I try not to reach for anything.

My mother married young. She was 19, just beginning to take on the world with wide, clear eyes and open arms. She reached, and her hand found my father.

Four babies and 29 years later I’m afraid she has stopped reaching, stopped needing something to set her soul on fire.

So, I’ve tried to quit reaching for her so much, quit needing her so much. What if she feels trapped, I panic. What if she wants out? I don’t want to be the one to stand in the way.

Sometimes my own freedom seems so enormous it’s hard for me to fathom its immensity. I want her to feel that feral and wild. Someday, I hope she reaches for a two-lane highway that never ends.