But I don’t want to hear any of that. My son doesn’t want to go away with me. My husband has a girlfriend. My best friend is dying. I’ll never be Sari Epstein. Haven’t I suffered enough for one day?

“So,” Nick says with a percussive tap of his hooves. “What’s with the dog?”

I stare at him, then down into the sling. “What do you mean?”

More tapping. “I’m just curious about it. It’s pretty unusual. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone wear a dog.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being unoriginal!”

“Exactly! I’m just really curious about how it started and why you do it. And like, if it bothers Gary. Does it bother Gary?” He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, as if it’s children’s story time at the public library. Isn’t that why he has taken his hoof-hands off and has a sketchbook out and is starting to draw me with a big soft pencil, making smudges to the lead with his thumb?

“So many questions!” I lob back, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not just a little bit flattered to be asked. Not to mention giddy at the opportunity to talk about it. No one ever wants to talk about it. No one ever wants to talk about anything to do with me, I’ve found, now that I’m fifty and invisible. The fact that Nick does makes me almost teary with gratitude—especially after I misjudged his curiosity for nosiness. I start at the beginning: the day I found the sling, the red cabbage and the bath towel and the cans of tomatoes, and the sudden epiphany about wanting to carry something around because I missed carrying around a baby and because it somehow made me feel better after so much loss and sadness.

Nick nods. “Wow. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well, watching both your parents get sick and die within two years of each other really kind of takes it out of you.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so grim.”

By the time Phoebe sidles into the room and onto the couch, tilting her head and sizing me up, as if she’s trying to figure out how much I weigh and what shape my body actually is under my sweater and T-shirt and sling—I’m telling them about Grace barring me from bringing the dog into the school.

“Unless I register the dog as an official support animal and show her the paperwork.”

Nick shakes his head. “What. A. Bitch.”

“Seriously,” Phoebe adds.

“I know, right?” I’m so grateful for their support that I find myself holding my pose of outrage—mouth open, hands in the air—while Nick flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook.

“I’ve never liked her,” he says, still sketching.

“You know her?”

He looks up. “She’s my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Noah is Nick’s dad,” Phoebe explains. “And Noah and Grace are a couple.”

I feel like my head is going to explode. “Wait, what?”