After I sold my apartment in New York City and most of my furniture, I packed whatever was left in a small U-Haul, put my cat, Clive, in his carrier in the cab, and pulled away from the curb. I drove five hours upstate to my hometown. After I passed the WELCOME sign, I took a right off the four-lane road that creeps through our town and drove up the main street, which is all of five blocks long. I had been living on the Upper East Side in Manhattan for the last ten years, so the brick buildings all looked so small. Small and quaint. I’m proud that I grew up here. I smiled as I slowly drove passed the pizza place where I used to hang out after school (cueNext Yearby Foo Fighters), passed the old clock tower in the town square, passed the newspaper and cigar store, and passed the ice cream parlor. It had been 37 years since I lived in this town. A few things were different, but most of it was the same—and right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I crossed the bridge to the north side of town and pulled into Mom’s driveway. I brought Clive in the house and got him settled. While he sniffed around, I unloaded boxes from the U-Haul and stacked them throughout the living room, the den, and Mom’s bedroom.

I had a two-year plan. After I quit my job and moved back home, I gave myself two years to get my book published. First thing was first. I needed to unpack. Toward the end of her illness, Mom had bad days where she was rushed to the hospital to treat an infection, or dehydration, or one of the many side effects of the chemo treatments. In her last visit to the ER, the doctor told her she wouldn’t be going home. Her cancer had progressed to the point where she only had a few weeks to live. In order for her to be comfortable and pain-free, they brought her to a private room and set her up on a morphine drip—something hospice wasn’t allowed to do at home. Because she left the house the last time so quickly, all of her things were right where she had left them. Her sweater was draped across the back of a dining room chair. Her Mary Higgins Clark novel was tented on the wooden TV tray she used as an end table next to her La-Z-Boy. I walked into the kitchen and saw that her teacup was still on the countertop with her tea still in it. It was as though she was simply in the next room. I sat down and had a good cry.

What was I thinking? I was 55 years old. I had moved back home into my mother’s house. I had no job, hence no money coming in. And no love life. I found out that the guy I had been living with the last two years had not only cheated on me (with several women as it turned out), he had also gotten married to one of them and conveniently neglected to tell me. He was married to someone else, but living with me. Eating my food. Sleeping in my bed! To say that my love life went down in spectacular ball of flames would be an understatement. I had a cat, a few boxes of stuff, a computer, and the working draft of a manuscript.

I looked around the house at all of Mom’s stuff and decided to take things slowly. I thought of that scene in the movie Under the Tuscan Sunwhere Diane Lane’s character goes through the old Italian house Bramasoleshe bought and decides the best thing to do is to start with one room at a time and make it her own. That’s what I would do. I decided to first focus on the kitchen. After all, a girl’s gotta eat!

I took Mom’s dishes out of the cupboards, placed them in boxes, and stacked them in the basement for my sister, Patty, and I to go through. I spotted the freezer against the wall in the basement and opened it up.

“What’s for dinner, Mom?”

As I pulled out a Tupperware container labeled “turkey soup” I noticed a beige loaf-like object on the door. I took it out and turned it over to read the label. “Christmas sugar cookies.” Mom had frozen the leftover cookie dough. I brought the soup and dough upstairs. I thawed the dough in the microwave. As I wiped the cupboards down then filled them with my dishes, I baked the cookies. Mom’s cookies. The whole house smelled like Christmas. I found a can of coffee in the refrigerator and made a pot. I took the cookies out of the oven and poured myself some coffee. Mom had given me her sugar cookie recipe, so I could make them next Christmas, but these were her cookies, made by her. It was the last time I would ever have hercookies. I let the tears roll down my cheeks as I savored every bite.

After I finished putting the dishes away, I heated the soup and had dinner. That night, I wound through the boxes, down the hall to Mom’s bedroom—now my bedroom. I couldn’t find the box where I had packed my pajamas, so I opened the top drawer of Mom’s dresser and pulled out her night shirt. It’s a battered long-sleeved red T-shirt of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. That was her favorite football team. I held the shirt to my nose and smelled her perfume. I slipped it over my head and climbed into her bed. Clive jumped in the bed and curled up beside me. I laced my fingers behind my head and stared at the ceiling. I wasn’t sure what the morning would bring, but there was no turning back.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” I said to no one.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.