I’m planning to start a round of IVF treatment over February break too, but oddly I’m not jittery about that. Oliver is, though. But he’s feeling the fear and doing it anyway.

“It’s supposed to be a pretty good university, you know,” Abigail says, her eyes still fixed out the window at the bare trees and lawns of the college campus.

I glance out at the view again, then back at my sister. It occurs to me this isn’t just a random observation.

“Have you been looking into it?” I say.

She colors a little and nods.

“I have a bunch of brochures in my tote,” she says. “I’ll show you later. I have to do something, Gillian. I think it’s go back to school, or work at a temp agency or something, and that was fine in my twenties but...” Abigail clears her throat. “I was thinking…maybe it would be interesting to study something in genetics. I thought, maybe genetic counseling…”

I look at her.

“That sounds really great,” I say, and Abigail nods.

She told me earlier today that Lorna’s just started chemo this week. Apparently the first session was okay, but it’s supposed to get worse with time, which seems so unfair. Unlike other things in life, this isn’t something that your body gets better at the more you do it.

“And you think she’s going to stick with it?” I asked.

Abigail shrugged.

“I really hope so, Gill. But in the end it’s up to her.”

They email now, Abigail and Lorna, and Abigail told me they’ve talked on the phone since she came back from Florida. Meanwhile, Sam isn’t the only one who’s started therapy: Abigail’s going for the first time too. She told me she feels like there’s still this mom-shaped hole inside her, or at least something that’s not quite a hole but not quite full, and that she’s slowly realizing that neither Lorna nor Mom are going to be able to fix that. That the only person who can really fill it is Abigail.

I glance back out at the university campus, and think of the brochures in my sister’s bag. The New Year really is looking to be a year of new beginnings.

“It’s true, you know,” I say. “You always were the brave one.”

She raises her eyebrows at me.

“And you’re what, a coward?”

I shrug.

“‘Mouse,’” I remind her.

She glances at me, wincing.

“You always hated that name, didn’t you?”

I give her a look. Who wouldn’t?

“You know I was the one who started it, Gillian? I knew you hated it, but I called you it anyway. Dad didn’t mean anything by it. He just called you that because I did; he thought it was sweet.”

Sweet?

I stare. Is that true? It’s certainly not how I remember it.