Nobody warns you about the quiet of the second week. The first week, you're busy. You wash the sheets. You wave to the neighbors. You hold it together.
"Letting them go is not the end of mothering. It's the next part."
The second week, the house is just… quiet. And you stand in the kitchen at 3 p.m. and realize you don't know what to do with yourself.
Here is what I'd tell my own self, looking back: this part is allowed to hurt. And also - this part is allowed to be the beginning of something. Both. At the same time.
Letters from Alison
If this met you where you are, the letters will too.
One quiet Sunday email. An essay, an outfit, and one small thing to take into the week.