One morning last spring as I was getting ready for work, the phone rang. It was my dad. He said, "Can you come over? I've got to get out of the house for a little while, or...well, I just need a break." My dad never asks for favors. I told him I would come over right away. I was happy to help him; I wanted to help him. But still, my stomach dropped at the thought of being there with her. Alone. My stomach dropped at the thought of being alone with my mother.

I hung up the phone, gripped the doorway I was standing in, and sobbed. My mom was suffering the worst depression of her life and there was nothing I could do about it. I'd never seen her like this; her other episodes had been when I was too young to really remember. To see the emptiness in her eyes broke my heart. To see the strained expression on her face broke my heart. To hear the lack of hope in her voice, when she spoke at all, broke my heart. To dread the thought of visiting my mom, my friend, broke my heart.

I don't know why this is what comes to mind when I think of Mother's Day. I guess those 6 gray months of her illness and recovery were the closest I've ever been to being a mother myself. I was, in effect, a mother to my own mother. I was my dad's decision-making partner. I planned the family dinners and went to the doctor appointments. I insisted she take her prescription pills when she didn't want to. When she went to the hospital, I packed her suitcase because she couldn't. When she came home, I took her each day to her group therapy sessions. I remember the fear in her eyes the first day she went, like an unsure 5 year-old on the first day of kindergarten.

My mom is a yardsale queen. She loves the thought of someone else finding a use for something she no longer needs. Her neighborhood has a huge community sale every spring, and she has participated every single year. Except last spring. Last spring she couldn't. But this year? This year she did. The yardsale was yesterday. I didn't bring anything to sell, but I went anyway just to sit with her. Just to sit behind the tables, people-watch, and chat. With her.

My mom is healthy again. My mom is back. And things are just the same as before, only different. Now I am so proud of her. Now I appreciate the light in her eyes, the smile on her face, the excitement in her voice. Now I marvel at how we never run out of things to say. Sometimes we talk about her depression, and she tells me the things she couldn't say before. That she loved me deeply even at her worst moments. That she looked forward to my daily visits even when she didn't show it. That she'll always remember that I believed in her when she'd completely lost hope. She says I was her angel. I know what she means - she's been an angel to me all my life.

Happy Mother's Day to all the mommas and caregivers out there. You mean the world to someone.