My daughter used to race to be the first to wish me a happy Mother's Day. Now, she won't even call me.

• The last time I heard from my daughter was five years ago on Mother's Day.
• My daughter and son used to race each other to see who would call me first on Mother's Day.

I once had a daughter who loved me. She called herself my baby. Then she went away.

The last time I heard her voice was five Mother's Days ago. That's 35 years in mom years. My daughter will be 35 next year. I probably won't hear from her then, and I've stopped asking why.

When she was still talking to me, my daughter would race my son to be the first child to call me on Mother's Day. The last time — which I didn't know would be the last — she asked me, "Has my brother called you yet?" Despite her tone being so deliberately casual, her small exhalation at my assurance she was the first to call didn't surprise me.

If she ever called me again, on any day of the year, that would surprise me.

I miss her all the time

I miss my daughter, but I have learned to tuck my feelings deep down. Otherwise, if I miss her every day, all day, my functioning grinds to a halt.

I know I'm not the only mother who will miss her child on Mother's Day. In a survey of Americans by the sociologist Karl Pillemer, one in four respondents said they were estranged from their families — which would equate to about 67 million people. That's a lot of mothers crying on Mother's Day.

I think about those other mothers. We were there for each other when our children were little. When my daughter was 9 months old, I took her to music class. It was really a mom's group. We exchanged exhausted smiles while sitting in a circle and singing songs. I clapped my daughter's hands in time to "Old MacDonald." She giggled when I mooed.

I miss the barking sound of her laugh.

I'm not alone

Missing her threatens to overwhelm me. I feel nauseous with a ghostly "mourning sickness." I realize I need the support of other mothers again. But this time, I identify with a different collective, one made up of moms who're suffering from the loss of a living child. I type the words "rejected moms" in my search engine. Whole communities pop up for mothers of estranged adult children.

This is a moms' group I never imagined would include me.

The feelings can sideswipe me. A smooth-faced young woman walks toward me from across the grocery-store parking lot. My breath catches. Is that my daughter coming home for Mother's Day? It strikes me that I don't really know what she looks like anymore.

Do her legs still have the shapely calves of her tap-dancing grandmother?

The sharpest birth pain is the one in May when I won't hear my daughter's sweet, "Happy Mother's Day!" over the phone. "It's your baby," she'd add, as if I wouldn't know.

In the 2023 edition of an annual survey of Americans by the National Retail Federation, 84% of respondents said they celebrated Mother's Day. I anticipate my Facebook feed exploding with a mushy pink, women bemoaning their dead mothers who were their best friends, and daughters proclaiming, "My mother is my best friend! LOL!" And, of course, there will be many memes and quotes about mothers and daughters being besties.

Mother's Day will be hard without her

Her heart-shaped face took my breath away. I remember her looking up at me when she was 6, her arms tight around my waist. I can still feel the pressure, an everlasting indentation where love once flowed.

What I'm sure not to see on the screen this year is that face. My daughter has blocked me from her life, real and virtual. I am considering going on a 10-day cleanse from social media.

Does Mother's Day even exist if it's not shoved down my throat?

My feelings remind me to avoid all home stores, where scented candles can trigger me. The last Mother's Day gift my daughter gave me was a thick pillar candle perfumed with vanilla.

It's true my daughter is gone. She might never come back. But what's also true is the love we once felt for each other. My daughter seemed to love me most on Mother's Day. When she left, she didn't take my abiding love with her. I'm haunted by the good memories.

I pull out the handmade card she created at 16, where she drew a little girl hugging her mommy. I run my fingers over the fading block letters: "I will always be your baby on Mother's Day. And don't forget it!"

I keep that card slipped into the back of a drawer so I can reassure myself that we were once close. I didn't hallucinate it. The construction paper has yellowed with age.

No matter what I do to give it a wide berth, the holiday will be here soon. When my daughter doesn't call on Mother's Day, maybe I'll gaze at that card again before the writing fades even more. I might even light a candle. It's all about taking baby steps. Perhaps enough time has gone by that I can endure the scent of vanilla.