“Not our parents.” She placed her arm around my shoulder and we walked out the door, squinting into the sunlight.

The aroma of Lil’s apartment was a combination of soap and mixed-up perfume—too many girls sharing a single small space. Dishes were in the sink, but the living room was clean because I’d given Lil a warning I was coming to visit. She sat on the couch with her legs curled up underneath her bottom like a comma. Her hair was pulled back in a headband, her curls falling free down her back and over her shoulders. The bronze streaks in her hair, which were scattered misplaced threads, were a gift from my mother—a gift given unknowingly and yet one Mother often mentioned, as if she’d sacrificed something of great value.

Lil’s face was unadorned, and my heart squeezed at her simple beauty, at the many ages she had been and would be with and in that face of hers. The curves I knew better than I knew my own, as I’ve looked longer and harder at her eyes, her mouth, her slanted eyebrows, than I have ever stared into my own mirror.

We, Rusty and I, hadn’t ever discussed or planned our family. We weren’t the type to sit down and say, “Okay, let’s have five kids.” Or one kid. I remember a time at a dinner party when someone asked Rusty if we were planning on having any more kids, and Rusty had answered that we thought one was more than enough. I’d nodded with the dull thought that I didn’t remember any such conversation, but with a newborn I was too exhausted to even think about disagreeing.

Later, I’d asked him about that comment, and his response had been surprise, saying that he thought we’d talked about this, about how we wanted only one child, how we weren’t the type to have a household full of screaming brats, and how we’d agreed that we were so lucky to have healthy, beautiful Lil that we didn’t need to take any more chances. “Oh,” I’d said. Just “Oh.” Then I’d wondered if I was crazy to not remember such an important conversation.

I’d decided, through the years, that Rusty wasn’t exactly lying in that conversation, but that our discussions about other couples’ kids and about children in general had led him to believe that this was how I felt.

Lil—Lillian Eddington Calvin—is the most open portion of my heart; she is the most creative piece of my soul.

“Mom, Mom, Mom,” she said in that exasperated tone of the eternally irritated young adult.

“Yes?” I smiled at her.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Yes, you said that chemistry sucks, that Billy Morton got a DUI, that you hate your new roommate who took Indie’s place while she’s at home over the summer …”