One day at the grocery store, Annie places Suzy in the cart, and she pushes it across the shiny brown flooring, zooming down the aisles, past the boxes of cereal Suzy isn’t allowed to eat, through the produce section, bruised off-season peaches winking at them, past the cheeses, free samples placed on plastic plates with tiny toothpicks. And Suzy is squealing, her laughter floating through the store like a catharsis. And finally, when they stop at the ice cream aisle so Suzy can pick a flavor, they’re stopped by a little old woman, gray hair cut short, pink lipstick outside the lines, jowls dangling like chicken legs. “You two look just alike! It brings me back. I used to do the same with my daughter when she was small. Now she lives all the way in Florida! Don’t you ever leave your mama, you hear me?” And she tickles Suzy under the chin, and Suzy nods, giggling.

“You really have such a beautiful little girl. Have a blessed day.” And the old woman moves onward, toward the popsicles at the very corner of the aisle.

At first, Annie reminds herself that lack of correction isn’t a lie, only an omission, a decision to stay silent, to nod and smile and be polite. But then, as it begins to happen more and more, she allows herself to be awash in it, this glow about her supposed motherhood. She walks around with a smile on her face, thinking of those people who automatically imagined Suzy in her body, tethered to her for nine months, and wants to squeal with joy, with the absolute euphoric dream of it. So much so that she starts to expect it, beats people to the punch. “Oh, I’m so sorry. My daughter is having a bad day,” she’ll say when Suzy throws a tantrum in line for popcorn at the movie theater.

Annie is so caught up in this turn of events that she barely registers how sick Mrs. Keller is until fat snowflakes begin to fall in late November, a surprise snow, blanketing the roads, the lakeside, and school is canceled. Mrs. Keller has stopped going into the office, has stopped going into the city, spending most of her time at doctor appointments. She refuses to tell the school what’s happening to her, convinced that Suzy will get preferential treatment. She hates the idea of pity. Always, but especially now.

It’s almost as if the illness has turned her into a shadow, her physical presence grown so miniscule, so insubstantially tiny, that Annie doesn’t realize she’s in the room until she’s right in front of her. Most of Mrs. Keller’s interactions the past two months have been with Mr. Keller, hurried, quick exchanges as he drives her to her appointments.