My daughter texted me saying that Liz had died. I was taken aback. It couldn’t be. She was a friend of mine.

A few years ago, I had heard from mutual acquaintances that she had some spinal problems; that she was now using a wheelchair in her classroom; that she had gotten divorced. But I didn’t realize that she had cancer that had spread to many organs and had been hospitalized several times in the past year. I didn’t know that she was in constant pain but was still appearing at every child’s wedding and every grandchild’s birthday. Thirty years ago, she had been my day care provider and I still considered her my friend.

I found myself amazingly sad, on many fronts. And I also found myself questioning my definition of “friend.” If she really was my friend, how could I not have known that she was so ill? What happened in those years where we were all so busy?

In the mid ’80s we lived in a lovely residential area in South Portland. There were truly 23 children under the age of 9 on our two dead-end streets. I was one of a very, very few mothers who worked outside the home. Liz was my day care provider. She had five children of her own and her house was pretty much a haven for children everywhere, so my two fit right in.

In the spring and fall my children would ride their big wheels over to her house. I would follow in the car bringing their backpacks and jackets. Both of my children left her house, not mine, to start their voyage in education, their first day of kindergarten. We have pictures to prove it. Many years later, after she went back to teaching, I would see her at educational conferences and she would introduce me saying, “You know that’s Ian’s mom. He’s 21 now. I toilet-trained him.” And she was right. But it was truly more than a day-care relationship. The whole neighborhood turned out for Halloween festivities. Liz and I decorated birthday cakes together. The mothers would meet to create wonderful holiday crafts over a few glasses of wine. We had going-away parties and baby showers; whatever the occasion required. We created our own support group way before the term became popular.

But years intervened. Children grew up. Couples got divorced. Some got remarried. People sold their houses and moved to different parts of the state. Some of us would occasionally meet at weddings. None of us meant to disconnect; but it slowly happened.

So now I need to say goodbye. I wish I had been more prepared. I wish I had kept in closer contact. I hope she knows that I always considered her my friend. And I’m determined to look around and nurture those friendships forged in that lovely neighborhood – to reach out and check in.

That’s what friends do, no matter where the neighborhood, no matter what the time.

— Special to the Telegram