“Right. Right, of course. Hey, did you want one of the raisin breads? I saved the last one for you.”

“You did? Oliver will thank his stars.” I turn around. “Sam, what do you want? I recommend the apple turnovers, Lottie’s right.”

“Sounds good.”

We collect our bags and head to the produce section and I put the odd comment from Lottie out of my head. I have enough sister drama of my own going on without getting involved in whatever’s happening between her and Dinah.

“How about one of these for tonight?” I say, as we get to a stand filled with fat butternut squashes.

Sam nods, and I pick up a couple, weighing them in my hands.

“Hey, Aunt G—how come you’re not wearing your ring?”

My gloves are stuffed in my pocket and Sam’s right about my bare ring finger. After putting myself on this gluten-free, sugar-free, fun-free regimen—not to mention giving up alcohol for a couple of months—I’ve lost weight from all the places I didn’t want to lose weight from. My wedding ring’s been slipping off my finger recently, so I finally decided to leave it on the little jewelry tray by my bed for now.

“It’s not fitting anymore,” I say.

Sam looks at me from beneath his messy hair.

“The ring?” he says, his voice very quiet.

I glance at him. Did he think I meant my marriage?

“Sam,” I say. “Everything’s fine. I promise. I just need to put a bit of weight back on these fingers.” I wiggle them, trying to make a joke. “Come on, let’s get what we need and get out of here. It’s cold.” But despite myself, as we walk back to the car, I flash back to the Hannah Feldman email and wonder how long it will take Oliver to notice that I’m not wearing my wedding ring.

*

Sam agrees to stop in at Mom’s quickly on the way home, so we take a different route back from the market.

To my chagrin we hit a red light at the intersection beside the fertility clinic. I try not to glance over, ignoring the building that dances just outside my field of vision, daring me to look.

“Um.” Sam’s voice cuts through. “The light’s green.”

“Right, thanks.” Embarrassed, I hurry up before anyone starts beeping.

As we drive on I point out the “landmarks” on the rest of our route, among them the school where I teach. Sam pulls on the strings of his hoodie and stares out at the low-slung, redbrick building. It looks so quiet, so dormant during the holidays—as though it’s been empty for months, not days.

“Do you like teaching?” he asks.

I nod. “I do. It’s hard though. Harder than it seemed when I was your age. I thought teaching looked easy back then. And there’s a lot of homework.”