Tammy was vacuuming.The whole house looked . . . cleaner, yes, but also . . . lighter?In the fridge, she found leftover pizza and started to eat a piece cold, standing at the kitchen island.The cat was in a corner, cowering, like maybe it had never seen Tammy vacuum.Then it hopped up onto an end table that had once been covered with . . .That was it.No more UFO Insiders.No more ET magazines.Whole piles of back issues . . . gone.“Mom??”It just slipped out.Tammy hadn’t heard.The vacuum too loud.Louder: “Mom?”She turned, used a foot to switch off the machine.Looked like she might cry.“You okay?”Her mother sat on the couch, wiping away tears. Shaking her head. “When you have little kids, people are always saying it goes so fast. Blink and you’ll miss it. And I remember feeling like it wasn’t fast enough.” She reached for a tissue box, pulled one out, dabbed her eyes. “Now I just want it all to slow down. I want to rewind and play the whole thing again but with you in it.
