She expects my body to shun the food of my ancestors, because my mind shuns other aspects of their traditions — like the resignation expected of an unhappy wife.

Making orange juice from concentrate was, the way my mother did it, an overwhelmingly complicated task.

If the brood at the kitchen table didn’t like what was for dinner, we’d complain, gently at first, and inquire politely if there wasn’t something else we could have.

Who am I to say she’s wrong or right in pretending they’re a normal family?

Seven years later, and I didn’t cry in the shower or eat gobs of peanut butter out of the jar before bed. I didn’t replay that icy morning in my mind, speeding up Park Avenue, my head in my husband’s lap, trying to lay flat and take the pressure off my cervix.

My body, once buzzing with hormones that announced an undeniable presence, now echoes like an empty mausoleum.