I don’t hear the voices of my children anymore. I don’t hear the word “Mommy” or the giggles from little-girl sleepovers. I don’t hear the wails from scraped knees or the high-pitched snorts at dumb knock-knock jokes. I don’t hear the harsh blast of Metallica playing to a crowd of rowdy 14-year olds, or know-it-all teenage voices declaiming deathless 80s and 90s slang such as “Mega” or “Burnt.”  I don’t hear the muttered whispers when they creep in way past their curfew, or the shrieks about broken nails or messed-up hairdos.

No, I don’t hear my children anymore. But I do hear their warm voices talking about their women’s concerns and I am happy when the phone rings and I hear them say, “Mom.”