It has occurred to me, it is a recurring thought, even, that the brisket weighs the same as Lily. Nine pounds, three ounces.
Is this what perfect mothers do? Look like deranged, ecstatic Moonies who can’t seem to leave their kids alone? Is this what I signed up for?
I sprinted into the house and made the call. I remember desperately wishing my mother was there.
In her twenties, Emily can’t picture becoming a mother. She doesn’t want a life like her own mother’s—to settle, or settle down.
When I squeeze my eyes real hard at the photograph of Mamma’s wedding day, the one with her mouth wide open, I can see it—the sad something Mamma managed to hide from the world.
The air had grown still, and the window gleamed. She wished she was flying onto a bank of ice, wished that baby would appear and scream with hunger, and she’d hold him close and sing him a simple song.
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