Different/better/worse

Eight years later, as a mother

One of my friends from college sent around a selfie with her four-month-old on Wednesday night. His gummy grin lights up the frame. Behind him, she wears a contented smile, but her eyes are in mourning. “Wow,” she texted. “Having a baby makes the existential panic different/better/worse.”

I’m unusually speechless this week, which is bad timing, because …