“We all lost the baby, didn’t we?” Sky’s gray eyes met ours, the pupils magnified by her tears.

I kissed her. “And we’re all with you, darling.”

Troy squeezed her hand and pulled away strands of hair stuck to her face with sweat.

We cried then and we cried together later on the phone when I returned home. Finally we went through a conversation without tears. And by that time Sky was pregnant again.

Now, four months along, she whispers as though she’s apologizing, “All I ever wanted is to be a mom. I mean that’s what’s most important. You know?”

I place more cookies in the confectioners’ sugar. “Yes.” She tells me this often, as though if she says it enough then it’ll happen, as though prayers are always answered.

She was the little girl who wanted baby dolls when her peers were collecting Barbies. She carried Matilda in her old Snugli, sang lullabies and slept with her. Even her Pound Puppy wore a diaper. I don’t know if it stems from a longing for our closeness before Tara was born, or from some sort of reverse jealousy or competition because of Tara’s birth. Or maybe it’s from seeing my joy at being a mother. Or simply the drives of biology and loving Troy and wanting their love personified. But being a mother is the apex of Sky’s sparky ambition. Maybe I need to accept that what is, just is.

I place the cookies in neat rows. Now six to a row. “There’s lots of ways to be a mother.”

“I just want it to be over. I want the test results. Four months of worrying has been enough. Now, other people know something crucial to my life and I just have to wait. Wish I could know first thing in the morning to start facing whatever’s next.”

“Or enjoy it, the pregnancy and the birth.” I roll additional balls in the sugar. “I’m sure she’ll call you as soon as she knows.”

Sky is quiet. My cheek hurts, I should put some ice on it, but I can’t. Not now. After we finish talking. After this batch is done.

“I hope it doesn’t ruin the cookie party.”

“Ruin it? I’ll have my friends to help me celebrate.”

She hears my glimmer of optimism as tarnished hope. “Or console you.”

“And you, too. They love you, too. You’re not alone.”

The confectioners’ sugar is soft as feathers as I place the cookies in rows. The first sheet is almost done.

There’s quiet. She stops walking. “I keep thinking, wondering why this has happened to us. So weird that Troy and I share this rare recessive gene when we’re not even in the same ethnic group…. I mean, we’re mostly German and he’s Italian.”

“They’re very close, you know?”