Where do they come from—Seema wonders, as she’s done before—the sunbathers and the tennis and soccer players, the people lining up for ice cream, partaking of the afternoon’s store of pleasures with such familiarity? They made happiness seem easy, as though they could sense the universe’s pulse and knew exactly where and when it was ready to offer up its coffers. A customary bitterness: she’s not one of them. Happiness has never come easy to her.

A memory: A Sunday morning in bed, Leigh spooning Seema. They’d fucked already, but Leigh’s hands start moving once again, in spirals, across the swell of her belly, down to the cleft of her thighs. Leigh stops herself. “I wonder what the baby makes of all this.”

“The baby’s happy if the mother’s happy.”

“Is the mother happy?” Leigh’s lips on Seema’s nape.

“Very happy.” Drowsy and content.

They’d eventually gotten out of bed, and then this same walk to Dolores Park. The day had seemed cozy, like the bedroom they’d left: made to hold just the two of them. But later that same evening came the call from her mother about the diagnosis.

“Leigh,” she says now, “last night I almost told my mother about us.”

“But you didn’t.” Not an accusation, merely a statement, but resigned.

“It wasn’t the right time.” Seema is defensive. Leigh hasn’t had to worry about her parents’ acceptance. “My mother was crying, and I couldn’t comfort her. I felt so bad. I’ll tell her tonight after dinner.”

They climb up the hill in silence to their spot at the top of the park, Seema holding on to Leigh’s hand for support.

But how unlike that other day, when holding hands wasn’t enough and they stopped periodically to touch each other: face, hair, the small of the back. At the Dolores Cafe, while waiting for their coffee, Leigh held her, hands resting on her belly, and they swayed to the sounds of the café and the street, oblivious to the crowd. They raised cups in a toast to perfect Sundays. They ambled up the hill, washed a vivid green by the September sun. Their bench was free, lit by a dazzling beam of sunlight. They took bites of each other’s cupcakes; they fed each other spoons of yogurt.

And sitting there, they’d talked about everything and nothing: Leigh’s dreams of going to grad school for journalism, the upcoming elections, Seema’s work for the Harris campaign, the baby.

“Have you decided on a name yet?”

“I don’t know how to pick. Nothing seems to call out to me.”

“Maybe I can help.” Leigh’s hand on her belly, stroking it.

Raising Leigh’s hand to her lips. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“What are you thinking about?” Leigh asks now. They’re sitting side by side on their bench, the city spread at their feet.

What Seema would like to say: I want to know what you see in me. Why do you want to be with me?