Beaming, she hurried out of the classroom. All the way across campus and through the student parking lot, she imagined new directions for the story, ways to fix it.

So caught up in her imagined world was she that she missed her exit and had to backtrack.

At just past 1:20, she pulled into the parking stall under the cement viaduct and walked across the street to Ivar’s Restaurant. Her mother was already seated at a table in the corner. Through the wall of windows, Elliott Bay sparkled in the sunlight. Seagulls wheeled and dropped and dove for french fries thrown by tourists on the pier outside.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kate said, sitting down across from her mom, unhooking her fanny pack and letting it rest in her lap. “I hate driving in the city.”

“I ordered us both shrimp louies. I know you have to catch the twoten boat.” Mom leaned forward, put her elbows on the table. “Well? Did your professor think your story was better than John Grisham?”

Kate couldn’t help laughing at that. “He didn’t use those exact words, no. But he did say I had talent.”

“Oh.” Mom sat back, looking disappointed. “I think your story was brilliant. Even Daddy thought so.”

“Dad thinks I’m better than John Grisham, too? And on my very first story. I guess I’m a genius.”

“Are you saying our opinion is somewhat inflated?”

“Somewhat. But I love you for it.”

“I’m proud of you, Katie,” she said softly. “I always wanted to find something like that for me. I guess I made afghans instead.”

“You raised two great kids—well, one great one and one pretty good one,” Kate teased. “And you stayed married and made everyone happy. You should be proud of that.”

“I am, but . . .”

Kate placed her hand on her mother’s. They both understood; every at-home mom in the world understood. Ultimately there were prices to be paid for the choices a woman made. “You’re my hero, Mom,” Kate said simply.

Mom looked at her, tears bright in her eyes. Before she could answer, the waitress returned with their salads and lemonades, put the lunch on the table, and left.

Kate picked up her fork and started eating.

The nausea hit without warning.

“Excuse me,” Kate mumbled, dropping her fork and clamping a hand over her mouth as she ran for the restroom. There, in a stiflingly small cubicle, she threw up.

When there was nothing left in her stomach, she went to the sink and washed her hands and face, rinsed out her mouth.

Her whole body felt trembly and weak. Her face in the mirror was bone-pale and drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark shadows under her eyes.

Maybe she was coming down with the stomach flu, she thought. Everyone at playgroup was sick this week.

Still feeling shaky, she returned to the table, under her mother’s watchful gaze.