I was 1,300 miles away from home when I found out my mom died. Motivated by the freedom that came with college graduation, I’d moved across the country from Minnesota to Texas for an internship. My mom and I hadn’t been in much contact for a few months, since my therapist encouraged me to set a healthy boundary in what I had recently realized was a toxic relationship. Still, when my aunt’s name lit up my phone in my dark bedroom, I knew. It was the phone call that would confirm what I had known for most of my life: my mom, who suffered from mental and physical illness, in addition to an opioid addiction, had died.
“It’s your mom,” my aunt said. I breathed in. “She passed away. Can you fly home tomorrow?”