“You never did use those discount vouchers we got for you, huh?”

I shrug apologetically. “Unlike you, I won’t be able to go around telling everyone I’m 5 percent Portuguese now.”

She laughs at that and lets me off the hook—I guess she can tell I’m about ready to get off the subject. The thing is, if I’m being honest, it’s not all about Oliver. I just don’t know what I’d do if they ran those tests and then came back with the worst kind of news. What if they confirmed that the reason I’m not pregnant yet is because I never will be; that there’s something fundamentally wrong?

Dinah swirls the last of her mimosa around her glass.

“Do you have time for another?” I check.

She nods.

“Jeff’s taken Josie to the ice rink. I’m all yours.”

I top up our glasses and get some snacks from the refrigerator, and we settle into our usual topics of conversation. I ask her about her family and how the holidays have been so far; if both her sisters were home for Christmas and what weird gifts her stepmother managed to find for everyone this year. She fills me in and asks about Oliver and the brewery.

My husband quit his job last year to co-found a brewery with his friend Dev, which is a dream the two of them have had for years now. I’m proud of him—it’s not just a dream, it seems to be a sound business plan, too—but I have to say it’s taking its toll. They’re still just in the process of getting things off the ground, and his hours are longer than ever. And right now, while a busy day at work might be exactly what he needs to take his mind off our recent disappointment, I don’t have that option. For once, I can hardly wait for school to start up again and provide a distraction.

“It’s going well, I think,” I say, and hand her my phone with the selfie Oliver sent me earlier: him pulling a pint of their first winter ale.

Dinah smiles, hands me back the phone.

“Cute,” she says. “They’re going to be a real success, those two.”

I wish I could be as confident about that as she sounds.

Then as I’m about to put my phone away it starts ringing in my hand, so startlingly loud that I accidentally drop it. Dinah’s mimosa topples in a gush of foam and she jumps up, pulling her now-wet top away from her.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry. Let me get you a towel…”

She fishes my phone from the puddle forming around it on the countertop.

“Answer it. It’s your mother.”