Something wasn’t right. Mac never turned me away. Ever. Bored housewife plus neglectful husband plus coffee plus baby kisses always equaled yes.

“Collette needs some Auntie Mac time.” The bribe that never failed.

I’d never told Mac the truth, but I often wished she’d had Collette instead of me. Her heart ached for more kids; mine ached because of them. I’d been taking birth control religiously, but apparently I was the 1 percent statistic when Collette was conceived.

After Willow I had planned to be done. My boy and my girl. The perfect family foursome. Then came Lucas, a surprise that wasn’t exactly welcomed, but not unwelcome either. Definitely done, Grant and I agreed. And then the birth control oops. Here comes Collette! I had finally enjoyed the luxury of a full night’s sleep right before she was born, and Grant and I even made room for a couple of date nights each month. Now it was back to two hours of sleep each night and a head full of hair that was quickly turning gray.

“Well, okay. Come on in.” She waved me in while her coffee sloshed precariously close to the mug’s rim. She was still in her silk pajamas, her hair a disheveled mass of blond knots.

She pulled a few strands over the scarred side of her face. Even after all these years she still tried to hide it. It broke my heart that she dwelled on this one physical flaw when so much beauty lived inside her. It broke my heart even more that I was the reason she had to hide her face at all.

“Sorry I didn’t call first.” It was a formality, really. When you’ve been friends for more than twenty years and a crisis arises, you never need to call first. At least never until now.

“It’s okay. I actually need to talk to you too.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds serious. You sure you should be wearing jammies for this conversation?”

I laughed, but Mac didn’t. Suddenly I felt awkward, like a stranger in her home.

“Coffee? Tea? Hard liquor?” Mac offered.

“Ha! After Sunday night I think I’ll be laying off the alcohol for a while. Coffee sounds great. I’ll serve myself; you sit.” I passed Collette to her waiting arms and grabbed the same mug I always used—a gift I’d given her a few Christmases ago. I’d had it personalized with an old picture of me, Mackenzie, and Lily at a college dance. We were striking Charlie’s Angels poses, fingers pointed like guns in different directions. Fresh-faced, hopeful, and uncorrupted . . . before we understood real life was messy and unscripted, and perfect hair, teeth, and bodies were only on TV.