As children, I think many of us only see fragments of motherhood at a time. We notice the things closest to us—the rides to school, the reminders shouted from another room, the groceries that somehow stayed stocked, the bills paid, the late nights we were too young to fully understand. We experience motherhood the way a child experiences a family recipe passed down through generations: enjoying what is placed before us without yet understanding how many hands shaped it before it reached us.

I have done this for over a decade. I have weathered months-long TDYs and half-year deployments. I know the rhythm of it — the suitcase tucked quietly into the garage, the louder-than-intended "I love you" thrown over the sound of crying, the first night that feels both too quiet and somehow still too loud. I know the choreography of goodbye.