She puts the phone down once the last kid is out. Then picks it up again—not to check messages, but to water a small digital fox.
Her friend from college, two time zones away, left it a note this morning: “Found a moonflower. Planted it near the creek.”
They never talk about it directly. No calls, no texts. Just the fox, the garden, and a quiet guarantee that someone else saw it too.
Ten minutes. No scrolling. No urgency.
The machine didn’t take anything. It gave them a pocket of shared time that feels, against all odds, like care.
If the Stars don’t wait for me I hope to catch them when I’m done. XS Lagrange L2