A long time ago, I was friends with a young woman Iíll call Becky. She was 18, I was 21. We had little in common except for the fact that we were both newly married and looking forward to a lifetime of happily ever after.
At 17, Becky had lost her mother to cancer. Within a year, she was pregnant and married.
I remember visiting her soon after her baby boy was born. She was so proud of him, so in love with him, so determined to be a good mother to him, just as her mother had been to her.
But things donít always go as we plan. When her marriage broke up, Becky took off, left the baby with his fatherís parents.
The next time I saw her, her little boy was almost 3 years old and I was nine monthsí pregnant with my first child. She needed somewhere to stay until she could find a job and a place to live. She talked about getting her son back and making up for lost time.
So for several weeks after I came home from the hospital with my newborn, Becky slept on our couch, cooked our meals, washed our clothes and did her best to be helpful.
I was sorry to see her go, but I was proud of her for wanting to make a home for her child.
What mother doesnít want that? What mother doesnít dream of the person her child will grow up to be, and want to give him every chance in life? Becky tried. Despite struggles in her life, rocky relationships and failed marriages, she tried to do right by her boy.
We lived 150 miles apart and saw each other only once or twice a year. Our boys played together on occasion when they were small, until they were teenagers, doing their own things.
Once when I called, Becky said her son had been arrested on drug charges. It was the first of many arrests to follow.
You know how some people never seem to catch a break? Ten years ago, Beckyís husband ó the love she spent a lifetime looking for ó died suddenly of a heart attack. And her health went from bad to worse.
Over time, it became harder to reach her. I didnít call often ó not nearly enough ó but there was usually no answer and no machine to leave a message.
I canít remember when we last spoke. Yesterday, when I tried to call, I let it ring a long time, hoping she would answer.
I wanted to tell her how truly sorry I am, how it broke my heart to hear the awful news that her son had died.
I wanted to say Iíll always remember him as a sweet-natured, well-mannered, easy-to-love boy, always quick to smile.
I wanted somehow, yes, to ease my guilt at not having done more, or been more in his life. But that was not to be.
When she didnít answer, I hung up the phone, wrote a long note and mailed it to the last address I had for her.
Today, while at the market, I struck up a conversation, as I am wont to do, with a young woman and her infant daughter.
(ěWhatís her name?î ěHow much does she weigh?î ěAre you getting any sleep yet?î All the usual questions.) We talked at length, trading stories, where we were from, how long we had lived here.
Suddenly I realized she was in a place where Becky and I had been once ó young mothers with babies and no family nearby.
Lucky for me, unlike Becky, Iíd had friends I could count on.
So I gave the young woman my card and told her to let me know if she ever needs a break or just wants to talk. And something in her laugh made me think she just might take me up on it.
We canít go back and correct old wrongs. We have to live with our regrets. But the great thing about today is, every day that weíre alive, we get a new chance to do something right.

Contact Sharon Randall at randallbay@earthlink.net.