A little less than a month ago, my daughter texted me from school. This happens on an almost daily basis, so I didn't think anything of it. But the content made me raise my eyebrows a little. Hey Mom, Sami is coming over after school. We need to talk to you about something. You're going to be mad.
Well, that's interesting. I am? I asked.
Yes. You're going to yell at me.
My curiosity piqued, I spent the next hour pondering what she might be needing to tell me: that she crashed the car; she wanted to drop out of school to join the circus; she needed to know how to get blood out of clothing and couldn't tell me why...  Then my phone notified me of another text.
Mom, I'm going to tell you now, because I can't do this in person. I'm pregnant. 

I always dreamed of having a big, happy family. A mom and dad who truly liked and respected each other, brothers and sisters who drove each other crazy but underneath it loved each other deeply, and extended family who came over on holidays and sometimes just because. Loud, noisy, rambunctious, and always there for each other.