My daughter and I will both be losing our best friends in less than 48 hours. I guess I shouldn’t say lose. That sounds a little too permanent – but my best friend and her daughter moving more than 2,000 miles away is, in every conceivable way, a debilitating loss for Skye and me.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. My best friend Abby has been the wise woman, midwife and chief of my village since the day I found out I was going to be a mother.

She was there when I took the pregnancy test; she held my hand through my first doctor's appointment and was the first person other than myself to see Skye moving around on the ultrasound screen. She cooked me dinner and made sure I was taking care of myself. She let me cry on her shoulder even when I couldn’t explain why I was sad.

Abby and I were close before I found out I was pregnant, but from that day on we’ve shared a connection unlike any friendship I’ve ever known. Because she was a mom too.

All my friends were amazingly supportive. However, I never really felt like they could possibly fathom what I was going through, without having been there themselves. Abby was a single mom of a then three-year-old girl; she knew my every fear without asking me to ever verbalize them.

When Abby’s daughter Kenzie met Skye, it was love at first sight. For the first two years after Skye was born, we all lived in the same apartment complex. To go more than a day without seeing each other wasn’t just uncommon, it caused serious withdrawals for all parties.

Even when Skye was a baby, and by most toddler standards extremely boring, Kenzie still couldn’t get enough of her. As Skye got bigger and more able to play, they were cemented in their inseperableness. Their relationship is nothing less than sisterly: they love, and hate, then love again, like any siblings I’ve ever known.

“Aunt Abby” and “KK” were among the first words Skye spoke.

They’ve been there for us with unceasing love and support, every day for the last four years. Their absence in our lives will create an unfillable void.

Oddly enough I haven’t cried yet.

It’s not because I’m not sad, rather I’m afraid that once I open up those floodgates, I won’t be able to close them again.

They’ve been planning the move for two years now, so it’s not like I’m unprepared. Until six or so months ago though, the countdown wasn’t imminent enough to cause real anxiety – and if it did I quickly pushed it into the “bridge I’ll cross later” file in my mind.

The countdown has gone from months, to weeks, then days, now hours. I wish I could slow down time. Yet it seems like the harder I wish that, the faster time slips away.

A week ago the girls had their first sleepover. Ironically enough it was also their last one for the foreseeable future. True to form, the sisterly bickering started early in the evening. I quickly tried explaining to Skye that this was one of the last times she would get to see Kenzie for a long time, but I know she didn’t really understand. If she understood that she may not see her best friend again for months, she would have been inconsolable.

She did begrudgingly share whatever coveted toy had started the argument, but it was just another spat, on just another day with her KK.

Later, as I sat listening to the girls giggling together in equally high-pitched squeals, I came as close as I have yet to tears. Knowing it to be one of the last times I’d get to overhear their joy was heartbreaking.

Our relationship with Abby and Kenzie has shown me just how lucky Skye and I – especially I – have been. How invaluable it is as a mom to have another parent in your corner. Someone you can admit to how many times you’ve had homicidal thoughts about your child that day, with absolutely no fear of judgement.

While Abby was my first mom-friend, at this point she is no longer my only one. I know that her moving away should be incentive for me to reach out to my other close friends who have joined me on Mom Island, and I do intend to. I can fill my corner back up, I can repopulate my village.

But for now, I’m going to mourn the loss of the village I’ve known, and don’t know how we’re going to do without.