Her voice is a nonstop flight of laughter and effervescence, and our stories keep tumbling over each other.

Sorry, you go!

No, no, it’s your turn!

I learn the names of her best friends.

And where she spent her 16^th birthday.

She shares the details of her first kiss.

I confess how much weight I gained during pregnancy.

Answer her questions about Italy.

And about surviving the loss of a husband.

We dish about our favorite—and least favorite—foods and classes and what we think about the word “y’all” and the book “The Jungle.”

Seventy-five glorious minutes later, she’s invited me to her 18^th birthday party.

And you have to sleep over, she insists. We’ll stay up and talk until 5am!

But your parents, I pause. Are they cool with—?

Totally! I already asked them! Promise!

Then I’m all in, I laugh.

On December 29^th, I will reunite with the daughter I last saw exactly 18 years to the day.

There will be hugs.

Happy tears.

And holy wow, there will be pajamas.