At six, she's your favorite.

At thirteen, she doesn't understand.

At seventeen, you can't wait to leave.

At thirty-two, you wish you lived closer.

At seventy, you'd trade everything to hear her laugh one more time.

There's a moment when you finally understand your mother, but for most people it happens too late. If she died tomorrow, what would you regret not saying?

Write it down, then call her. Today. The worst thing you'll carry isn't what you did wrong... it's what you never said when you still could.