Counted.

On Election Day, 2016, I arrived at my polling place at 6AM. The line was small, and so was my reaction to it. I’d pretended to be practical, but who was I kidding? I love hoopla and I lamented the bragging rights I could have earned by being on a line that wrapped around the block.

Nevertheless, as I walked in, I felt the same pang I always did on election day, because I voted at my kids' elementary school. I peeked through the window of the auditorium door, smiling at the memory of my son as a seersucker-clad-Harold Hill in the Music Man, and of my daughter nervously, and sweetly, singing "I Thought I Knew You" in the 4th grade talent show.

I walked into the cafeteria, where my kids had eaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, chicken tenders and more cookies than I liked to admit. My lunchbox-packing skills had been ok at best. I got in line behind a woman and her daughter. They held hands.

"This is where my class sits," the girl said, pointing at a table.

The woman was about to answer when a friend greeted them. "It's great that you came with your mother," the friend said.

"Well," the mother said, "This is exciting. We're voting for the first woman President."

"First woman President ever!" the girl clarified, unnecessarily, but joyfully.

I smiled along with others who'd heard the exchange. I stood at a privacy booth and scribbled furiously, filling in every bit of the oval next to Hillary's name so there could be no doubt. I fed my ballot to the scanner, and as the words "Your vote has been counted" appeared on the screen, I took a breath and felt what I always did at this moment - proud. And thankful. And lucky to be American. It was the same corny, honest rush of emotion I had when I voted for the first time and ran home to call my parents, surprised and a little embarrassed that my voice broke when I said “I did it.”

I made my way to the exit, to see that a small crowd had gathered in the lobby. A guy held the front door open and slowly, a very old woman pushed a walker through it. She was stooped, but determined, followed by her daughter and granddaughter.

"Ninety six years old and she walked here!" her daughter announced to the group and a small cheer erupted.

"Well," the older woman said, "I wasn't about to miss this!" And then more quietly, with a shake of her head, she added, "A woman President." People clapped and smiled as the little crowd grew.

"And look what she's wearing!"said her daughter.

The 96-year-old laughed. "My pantsuit," she said. "You gotta wear a pantsuit for Hillary!"

I was wearing a skirt and boots and was instantly filled with regret. She was right. We all owed Hillary whatever salute we could give; at the very least, a sartorial nod.

That night, I went to what was supposed to be a victory party. There was champagne on ice for the big moment, and a bottle of tequila "just in case." About an hour in, the room got quiet. Needless to say, we drank the tequila. Lots of it.

I kept thinking about the 96-year-old woman, smiling at the door, in her pantsuit.

Today, I voted early. I needed to. Not because I can't vote tomorrow, but because I'm anxious. For all the little girls holding hands with their moms, for the 96-year-olds with walkers and for every woman who’s feeling what I am.

I want this vote to count for my daughter and for my mother. And for my grandmothers, who would not have been able to believe that a president could say there were “good people on both sides” that day. I want the phrase "your vote has been counted" to make me feel proud like it always has, but this time, it feels different. I’m scared.

Today, when I voted, I wore a pantsuit. I figured it was the least I could do.