I’m driving across the rolling Palouse of eastern Washington, colored by wheat and summer sky, just me in the car, and the voice of actor Dan Stevens reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. “Oh, that’s the saddest story that’s ever been written,” a friend’s voice rings in my head, and I know she’s right. I’ve just dropped my 17-year old daughter, Olive, the youngest of my three children, at film camp outside of Seattle, another practice run for when she leaves home soon for the wilds of Los Angeles, where I won’t be able to protect her. I’m not ready for her to go, not ready to be done mothering her. I have so much to make up for, so much I still want her to forgive. I’ve lost my own mother three months before, suddenly, though after a long illness. The strangeness of a world without her still haunts me, but the soft expanse, the big sky, absorbs my grief. I feel lighter than I have in months, can feel myself beginning to dream again. On that ancient alluvial prairie, hills rising and falling in and out of view, I am dreaming of Mary Wollstonecraft.