“So . . .” says Dea. “How are you doing, Cate?”

“I’m . . .” Cate falters, taken aback, her mouth full of cookie. “I’m OK,” she says.

“We tell the truth in Mum Club,” says Dea reprovingly. “I’ll go first. Ask me. Ask me how I’m doing.”

“Um . . . how are you doing, Dea?”

“Hmm. Let’s see.” Dea closes her eyes for a moment. “Well, I sleep on average five hours a night. I used to be a person that slept for eight or more. If I didn’t get my sleep I would freak out. I’m still that person, somewhere inside, but I don’t think I’ve completed a full sleep cycle since my daughter was born. My knee has flared up. It’s an old injury, exacerbated by lugging my daughter in a sling, which seemed like the best and most wonderful thing to do when she was three weeks old and now is feeling like less of a good idea. But it’s the only place that she’ll sleep. So. My boobs are enormous. I was told they would go down. They haven’t gone down. My left shoulder has seized up. I’m assailed night and day by visions of horrors: my daughter falling, my daughter hurting herself, someone hurting her. I can’t listen to the news without crying, or turning it off. I haven’t had sex since my daughter was born.”

Cate smiles.

“You think it’s funny?”

Dea sips her tea. The chocolate fills Cate’s mouth with sweetness.

“There’s more, but—you know. I can keep it until next time. Now,” Dea says, turning to Cate. “Tell me. How are you?”

SHE HAS MADE pasta and tomatoes; olive oil, a little bit of chili. A chunk of Parmesan she forgot she had at the back of the fridge is grated over the top. A portion for Tom in his little green bowl is ready to go, and a bottle of red wine is open on the table.

She hears the door and Sam hanging up his coat in the hall. “Hey.” He sniffs the air. “Something smells good.”

“I thought I’d make some food.” She scoops Tom up from where he has been playing on the floor. “C’mon, cutie. Come and try some pasta.”

The pasta is rather successful. Tom proves surprisingly adept at fingering farfalle and sucking off the sauce. When the meal is finished, when she and Sam have both had a glass and a half of wine each, Sam offers to give Tom his bath and Cate sits at the table, listening to them giggling and singing together. When the bath is done Sam brings him back down, his hair curly and wet, and she kisses his forehead. “Who’s my boy?” she says. “Who’s my lovely boy?”

“Shall I get him in his pj’s?” says Sam.

“Yes, please.”