On the drive home, I realized that the "village" we hear so much about isn't just for raising kids. It’s for living life. Diane isn't my mom. But she is part of my foundation.
So, here is a toast to the friend’s mom. The one who fed you, who never told your parents about the dent in the bumper, and who, years later, reminds you that you’re going to be okay. friends mom
When you’re a teenager, she’s just "Mrs. Davis." She’s the one who yells up the stairs that pizza rolls are ready, asks if you need a ride home, and gives you that look when you and her son are pushing curfew by eleven minutes. On the drive home, I realized that the