
I raised three kids in the 1980s and I’m tired of pretending I wasn’t lonely doing it — my daughter texts me photos of her toddler every day and I want to tell her that all that documentation won’t make the isolation any easier
While my daughter captures every moment of her toddler’s day in pristine photos, I’m haunted by memories of crying alone in my 1980s kitchen with three kids, desperate to tell her that no amount of documentation will fill the void where a village should be.










