the time autumn arrived, her son had learned to laugh at the mobile above his crib, a spinning thing made of felt birds that Mrs. Parker had given her at the small, low-key shower her former colleagues had organized. Claire had protested the party on grounds of time and logistics, and Mrs. Parker had told her to stop being sensible about things that mattered.
One evening in early October, while rain tapped softly against the kitchen window, Claire stood at the stove making dinner. Simple food. Pasta, a sauce from things she had on hand, bread warming in the oven. The apartment smelled like garlic and warmth. Her son was in the bouncy seat on the kitchen floor, working seriously on the problem of his own hands, which still seemed to surprise him each time they appeared.
No one was going to arrive and inspect the napkins. No one was
