Dear Mom,

If you are somehow aware of the daily lives of the living, then you must be pissed to find out that I waited until after you died to move back home. I can picture you looking down at me, or up at me, and saying, “Seriously? Now? After all this time?”

My decision to move back to Chicago was a good one. I can’t say that I regret it. However, it’s not all that I dreamt it would be. It’s not the same without you here.

To me, this city represents you.

When I leave work and see the Water Tower Place, I think of all of the times you took me to lunch at Food Life.

When I ride into work, I pass the street where we bought my wedding dress.

Everything touristy we do reminds me of you. You always made sure that when I came home to visit from college we did sight seeing, even if I had asked to simply lounge around.

When Jeremy and I walk by the Century Landmark Theater we think about the time you took us to see Win Win and then walked me around the street and bought me a pair of shoes at Urban Outfitters. I still have those shoes. They’re my “dress shoes” and are in terrible condition.

When I pass the Briar Street Theater I remember the time you took me to see Blue Man Group and I threw a fit in the car. I was 18 and should have outgrown temper tantrums by then.

And everyday on my way to work, and from work, I pass Lake Michigan. I think about the time Dad, Jeremy and I placed your ashes into the lake. It was your absolute favorite spot in Chicago. The best view of the city. It was Thanksgiving Day, 2014. Was rather icy on the ground. Jeremy walked up to the water. Signs warning to keep our distance. I yelled out to him to be careful, startled him and his foot slipped. I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be just my luck if my husband slipped and fell into the icy cold Lake Michigan while attempting to dispose of my mother’s ashes? Did you think of how difficult it would be for us to dump you into the Lake during the winter? Was that a joke on us? Like asking that your funeral be in Buffalo Grove, forcing David and I to return to the suburb we grew up in for the first time since we escaped?

We succeeded. We sent you off into Lake Michigan, per your request, and then we left you and went to stuff our faces at Thanksgiving Dinner.

I think about you when I pass the lake. I feel your presence there.

I feel closer to you in this city. I think, deep down, there is a part of me that moved here to feel that. But that’s nonsense. You’re not here. You’re dead. You weren’t here to greet us when we arrived. You couldn’t show us your favorite neighborhood and help us apartment hunt. You aren’t here to meet me for lunch or take me shopping. My doctor is at Northwestern. Where you used to be so often for your treatments. We could have seen each other, if only I had moved here sooner.

All of the times when I lived far away and we’d watch TV together on the phone. When we’d chat during commercial breaks of the Academy Awards and gossip about dresses. Now that I live here, we could have watch Award shows together.

It somehow makes me miss you more to be closer to where you lived. It’s more real. Obvious. You’re gone.

Without you here, I find myself asking, “Why did I move back?”

Sure I have Dad and the rest of the family. And trust me, that is worth it. I love being closer to them. I want my children to be close to them. But I’ve gone 12 years away from family. I managed to build a life for myself 2,000 miles away. It was always doable to be distant because, no matter the time difference, I still talked to you multiple times a day. When you died, I suddenly felt a million miles away. I felt isolated. Moving back was supposed to change that. Nothing has changed. Even being closer to family, in a city I know and love, I’m still alone. Because you’re not here.

But this all seems stupid to me. I didn’t move to some small town in the middle of nowhere. I moved to an amazing city with endless things to do. I moved to a city full of family, and a few friends who are still around. Why am I complaining then? Why do I feel like maybe this move was a mistake? Is it too easy? My commute is a 12-minute bus ride that picks me up on my street and drops me off in front of my work. My doctor is at one of the best hospitals in the country and it’s walking distance from my job. My apartment is spacious and in a nice neighborhood. All things I wouldn’t have gotten in Los Angeles, my last home. Do I crave a more difficult existence?

Maybe it’s the lack of mountains here or the friends I left behind, but I often find myself wondering if I made the right decision. And if you were here, would I feel any different? Would I have even made this choice? Chances are, you’d annoy me after the first few weeks. I’d see you one too many times and need a break and this time I would have nowhere to run and hide. The best excuse to have my own space was the need to get on a plane and rush back to my life. Would I be content with my life being in such close proximity to yours? Unfortunately, I will never know the answer to that last question.

Since you’ve died, my life is full of a lot more assumptions. Or maybe they’re risks. Maybe moving to Chicago was a leap I needed to take to discover a new side of myself. Maybe I really did want to be closer to family. For now, I will learn to be OK with this move. I will continue to love the neighborhood I’m in. I will continue to find restaurants that I love, even if being vegan isn’t as easy here as it was in California. I’ll continue to find fresh produce while I still can. And I’ll walk and explore this city with my husband. Maybe, one day, this can become my city too. For now, I will love living in Chicago. While it’s warm. Check back with me in the winter.

I love you, Mom.

Rachel