We met when our children were in kindergarten. Within a school that actively forged connections among families, our class was especially close. Fourteen years later, we are still a community, watching as our young ones head off into their almost grown up lives. They—and we—have remained "like family," the title of the class autobiography our children wrote and published in seventh grade. Over the years, our young ones have romped through each other's houses, sure of their welcome on birthday sleepovers, after-school play dates, homework collaborations and teenage hang out sessions. Now, together, their parents are approaching the empty nest. When we gather these days, we plan all the ways we will find to kick up our heels. And as our children have also done through the years, we keep the talk therapy going. We are all in the same place, souls of different temperaments who allow space for one another's continual unfolding. There is such comfort in that. These photos were taken on a recent Sunday when we gathered for an evening pot luck in an urban garden. Fathers and children were also present, but it is the mothers' contemplative faces that grabbed me when I looked at the photos later. I love these women. They know my walk and I know theirs.