Back home, she gave the baby a bottle, changed her diaper yet again. Lauren sat in the recliner and put her feet up, bending her knees so Octavia rested against her legs. They stared at each other. The baby’s eyes were so . . . special. Giant and wise, like she knew everything.

When Octavia yawned, Lauren couldn’t help grinning in delight like a good auntie. Then Octavia started to fuss, so Lauren shifted her to her shoulder and patted her back, making little humming noises. After about five minutes, the baby grew quiet, and Lauren shifted her to the crook of her arm for more staring, drinking in the baby’s sweet lashes, silky little eyebrows, pale brown skin, almost exactly the same shade as Sebastian’s. Her hair was fine and brown, and she had the sweetest mouth.

And then, a tear dropped on her chin. Lauren’s tear, because apparently, she was crying. Silently, but a lot.

This, she knew with an aching certainty, was as close to having a baby as she’d get. She knew. She knew. She would never be a mother. Never go through what Jen and Darius had shared in the labor and delivery room, never look at a baby and see Joshua’s eyes or her own ears.

The tears wouldn’t stop falling, and Lauren’s chest was jerking. She cough-sobbed, then got up with some effort, not wanting to wake the baby. She put her in the little bassinet and went into the kitchen to cry into a dishtowel. She wouldn’t have children, and she was going to die too soon, and Sebastian and Octavia might not even remember her. She was going to miss so much. She would leave Jen, her beloved sister, and these perfect, beautiful kids and her mom and Josh, oh, God, Josh, and it was like all her skin was gone and she was raw and terrified and wailing into the void of despair because, goddamnit, she was going to die.

Then Jen was there, hugging her, and Lauren lost it. She clung to her sister and wailed, and Jen was sobbing, too, because they knew. They knew. They held on to each other and cried and cried and cried until there was nothing left.

The baby slept through the whole meltdown.

They looked at each other, eyes red and noses stuffed, skin blotchy, and Lauren gave a half laugh. “Come on, sit down,” Jen said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I’ll make you some witch’s brew.” She went back to the kitchen and made some tea out of the Chinese herbs she kept on hand for Lauren . . . astragalus root and raw schisandra berries, because she was a great sister.

Lauren was still hiccuping when her sister came back. “Sorry,” she said.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Jen said, squeezing her hand.