The work must be done quickly; the cookies can’t be too cool or the confectioners’ sugar won’t soak in. Too hot and fingers get burned. The second sheet is done and I go into the kitchen to retrieve it.

The phone rings.

I jerk around to reach the receiver lying on the counter next to the empty butter container and hit my cheek on the corner of an open upper cabinet. The door bangs closed, my cheek smarts, and the sting spreads.

“Mom?”

“You can’t sleep, huh?”

I can’t stop working, so I cradle the phone to my shoulder while my hands continue adding cookies to the sugar bag.

“Nope. Just tossing and turning. Afraid I’d wake up Troy.” Sky’s voice trembles slightly.

The cookies roll in the sugar. “I was worried about that.”

“I figured you’d be up making cookies.”

“You’re right. I just took out the first sheet. I’m shaking them in confectioners’ now.”

“Ah. Nana’s pecan balls.”

“My favorite.”

“Mine, too.”

I didn’t know that Sky and Troy were trying to get pregnant that first time three years ago. After all, they were both in law school and Sky plans her life to achieve her goals. But she called to brag that they had gotten pregnant on the very first try. The way she said it, “We got pregnant on our first try,” and then giggled, it sounded almost as if they had never made love before.

I bought fabric to make my first grandchild a quilt, was carrying it into the house, when she called, crying. She had lost the baby.

“Darling. I’m so sorry.” My voice fell. “You’ll be blue for a few months.”

“That’s what the doctor said. She said we could try again in six months. This is one helluva period.” Sky sniffled and then tried to muster a laugh. “‘It’s not unusual to have a miscarriage. Especially for the first one,’ she said.”

“I’ll come be with you.”

“You don’t have to.” But her voice lilted with relief.

But then the next year she had a second miscarriage. Again she called to tell me, again I flew out to be with her. “I wish you were closer.”

“Me, too.”

When she was pregnant the third time, we held our breaths. I tried to wipe the tinge of concern from my voice when we talked. The pregnancy continued. “Maybe I should quit work,” she wondered. “But they’re monitoring this pregnancy.” By the fourth month, I breathed again. Then in the eighth month, movement stopped. An ultrasound indicated the baby had died. The best thing for a future pregnancy was to wait and deliver the baby when contractions started.

“The baby is rotting inside me.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“No, wait, wait till the labor starts. I’ll need you with me then.”

“How’s Troy?”