The day was a normal one and for that, I was grateful. The week had started off with a bang that goes by the name of "Halloween," so I was happy for a typical Friday filled with only the mundane of life as a stay at home wife and mother of two. There was laundry to fold, toilets to clean, floors to vacuum, errands to run. I sent the kids off to school with a quick kiss and my morning catch phrases.

"Have a great day. Be your best selves. I love you."

Then I took a deep breath, gave myself a pat on the back for refusing to succumb to the pressure of two children begging for Halloween candy for breakfast, and turned to face the chores that would fill the coming hours of the day, thankful for the temporary quiet of an empty house.

I thought about my children many times throughout the day. I pictured their sweet faces, wondered how their day was going, considered things I'd like to do with them over the next few weeks. I even missed them for a moment or two as I went about the process of checking off items on my to-do list. Yet, there were other things on my mind as well, things that had nothing to do with my children.

The afternoon was as ordinary as the morning. The kids smiled as they hopped in the car after school and began answering my usual array of questions about their day. We got home and our routine unfolded the way it always does. Snacks, homework, reading, playtime, showers, dinner, bedtime. I talked to my children. I smiled at them. I read to them. I let them have dessert and brought their pajamas down and combed their wet hair and even put toothpaste on their toothbrushes, just to be helpful. I hugged them, I think. And when I turned out their lights and left their bedrooms, I was sure to send them off to dreamland with my evening catch phrases.

"Say your prayers. Sleep tight. I love you."

It was a good day. A normal day. When I entered my own bedroom a couple hours after leaving my children's, I felt content . . . fulfilled. I believed I had accomplished things of importance to myself and my family as I had done all the things a mother was supposed to do. I kept a safe, clean, organized home for my children. I prepared meals for them. I talked to them, helped them, reminded them, drove them. I played with them. I loved them. I hugged them, I think. It was a good day.

My daughter loves sweets as much as I do. That might seem hard to believe if you know me, but, lest we forget, she does have half my genes and on my side of the family a love of sweets runs deep. Real deep. My daughter doesn't simply have a sweet tooth. She has a mouth full of them. She asks for a treat after every single meal, every single day. I'm not sure if she thinks I'll slip up one day and allow her to have dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or if she just believes her consistency will eventually wear me down, but either way, the child is nothing short of relentless.
My kids came home with obscene amounts of candy on Halloween night. I knew we reached a rite of passage as Charlie and Libby discovered the ultimate goal of trick-or-treating is quantity. Their bags were literally overflowing with every kind of junk in the book after sprinting through our entire neighborhood on October 31st.

I allowed them to bask in their sugary abundance for a day or two. Then, I did the good mom thing and forced them to choose thirty pieces of candy they wanted to keep and set aside the rest for an organization that would ship it to American troops overseas. The kids actually got into the giving once they started. They were quite concerned with what the troops would really want to have, and they put a great deal more thought into creating an even mix of deliciousness for the soldiers than to which pieces of candy they would save for their own enjoyment.

And so when I began to crawl into bed that Friday night, less than a week after Halloween, I was satisfied. It had been a good day, a normal day. All was well in my world.

Then, I picked up my pillow. And I saw what was underneath it. And my heart shattered into a million pieces as love and pride and gratitude and shame consumed my every cell.

A pack of peanut M&M's.  My favorite candy.  I knew exactly who had left it there for me.  And all I could think was . . . I hugged her today . . . didn't I?