I’ve barely looked at the student artwork posted on the wall when there you are standing next to me.

“Hi, I’m Zefiro’s mom,” you say, all cheery with bright eyes.

And immediately I’m sure we’re going to be a big part of each other’s lives—this certainty coming by way of intuition and not clairvoyance, for a nice change.

“Oh, you know, don’t you?” I say, because of course you do. Clearly you already know who I am. Who my daughter is. Why else come right over to me after tonight’s PTA meeting finished?

And now that you know I also know what the future holds for our kids, your smile widens—looking huge against the array of little classroom desks behind you.

We become fast friends. The affinity that comes from being distant descendants of oracles would alone be enough to accelerate our bonding, but we’re catapulted into treating each other like long-lost siblings, thanks to the foreknowledge our ancestry has serendipitously granted both of us: my little third grader and yours are destined to be the loves of each other’s lives. And it helps that we’re both sure Aethera and Zefiro will make a terrific couple. After all, they are and will be good kids, so far as we know.
Though they’re largely oblivious of one another and years away from getting together, that inevitability enthralls us. During long lunches and meandering walks, we gleefully speculate on the many unknowns of their eventual romance. I say they’ll start off as friends. You say it’ll be an immediate mutual attraction that later turns stormy. I put my money on their relationship growing the way many plants do: fast at first, then slow and steady. We agree that we’ll be grandmothers to 2—maybe 3—grandchildren, even though I really can’t imagine Aethera pregnant, let alone a mother.

In all my visions of her as an adult, she seems someone else entirely. To me, Aethera is simply a 7-year-old girl who loves to do cartwheels, and I can’t see how she’ll be a college student shoplifting to relieve stress or a sentimental middle-aged woman getting teary-eyed nostalgic over the sight of hills bright with autumn foliage.

“Having the dots doesn’t mean you can connect them,” you have a habit of saying—once adding, “But I like having all the dots the universe confides in me.”

And both of us like sharing them. Whole hours go by as we swap tidbits of what lies ahead in our kids’ lives. When I tell you Aethera will be the jealous type, you tell me Zefiro will withdraw from everyone during bouts of brooding reticence. Then I tell you that sounds like a bad combo of personality traits for the times they’ll have to be apart for the sake of work and passion projects, but you say maybe it’s the other way around: time apart might make Aethera jealous of people Zefiro sees regularly.

Eventually, we talk about ourselves. One rainy afternoon, while we’re making noodles from scratch in your kitchen, you tell me about how you grew up in a country with vast forests, a pleasant place that somehow never really felt like home until after you left, then no longer felt like home once you had a family here—now, how could anywhere else ever be home? Later that week, we go rock climbing, and I see in you a future version of my daughter—a woman in direct contact with nature and her elemental self.

Our habitual meetups get interrupted when you have to travel for a conference. For a couple weeks, I don’t hear from you. I assume you’re busy catching up on work after getting back. But when I stop by with blackberries I picked with Aethera, your husband tells me you haven’t returned yet.

“It happens from time to time,” he says. “She gets an idea and has to pursue it. Maybe she was really taken by the landscape while driving and decided to do some impromptu backpacking.”

But it’s been over two weeks. Shouldn’t you have at least called by now? I can’t help worrying that something’s happened to you and we won’t get to babysit our grandkids together. Decades from now, will it be just me teaching them how to ski and make dumplings?

Driving home, I wish—for the first time in a long time—that my clairvoyance didn’t only work for family. I wouldn’t be worried if I had just a glimpse of you safe in some future moment—any future moment. You stuck in a broken elevator or giving Zefiro an earful after he’s been out with friends past when he agreed to be home. But there’s nothing like that stopping me from fearing the worst. You aren’t part of anything I know about Aethera’s future, so maybe you won’t be part of her future. Then again, few of the things I do know about her future involve Zefiro directly.

Later, in the shower’s warm spray, I remember what Mom often said: worrying isn’t helpful unless it gets you to do something. So after toweling dry, I go straight to my desk and write down everything you told me about Zefiro’s future—a list that ends up being 3 pages long. I read it over and pick something to start with: there will be times when he’ll be inconsolably upset.
Tomorrow, I’ll watch the news with Aethera. The next day, I’ll take her to the animal shelter downtown.

I’ll encourage her to feel whatever she feels, then tell her that sometimes even though your heart goes out to others, you have to accept the way things are and let time pass. I’ll keep working at it with Aethera until she understands the importance of this. Then I’ll move on to another item on the list. That’s what I can do for our children, whether you’re here or not. Though of course, I’d rather you and me prepare them for their future together.