“I know, but the doctor said it’s like we’re brother and sister, like from the same family.”

“Maybe that’s why you two are so good together. And don’t forget, you’ve got a fifty percent chance that this one is okay. Each baby has a fifty percent chance. Maybe you’ve done the sad half and now you’ll have three normal pregnancies.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Mom. It’s fifty percent with each roll of the dice.”

I know that. I tell her pretty fairy stories with happy conclusions as though they can erase the negative edge that haunts her. “Happy endings aren’t impossible. Sometimes they actually happen,” I say. The first sheet is finished. The cookies from the second are getting cool. I have to work quickly. “You have enormous strength. Even after the last time, you’re trying again. Something inside you knows this will work out.” I sweep a handful of cookies into the sugar and roll them from side to side in the bag. “So what are you going to do today?”

“How’s Tara?”

“Fine.” The truth is that her little sister, Tara, is eight months pregnant, eighteen, and unmarried. The father of her baby is a black ex-convict and aspiring rap star. This summer she voiced the irony that didn’t escape any of us. Shaking her black hair chunked with blue, she’d said, “Damn, here I am in an unplanned pregnancy in what most would call a, like, insane relationship and you”—she tilted her head toward Sky—“who does everything in the supposed-to way, wants a baby so badly and …” Her voice trailed off; her eyes met Sky’s fully. “Like they say, life ain’t fair. It’s … what do they call it? A mockery.” Unspoken tension and competition dissipated with our laughter.

Now I say, “You never know how any of this is going to turn out. And each event is ours to interpret. You can see yourself and Troy as victims of peculiar biology, or see yourselves as even physical soul mates and this ordeal as strengthening.” I place the sugared cookies in their row. “So what are you doing today?” I repeat.

“It’s Monday. I have a trial to prepare for. I’m hoping other people’s problems will be a relief.”

“A distraction to make the time go quicker.”

“I’m carrying my cell phone with me.” She stops talking. “Hey. Troy’s up. And calling me.”

“Go to your husband. I’ll be here all day. Call if you feel like talking. I love you.” I blow her a kiss.

“I love you.” The pop of her kiss vibrates in my ear as I finish shaking the cookies from the second sheet. More confectioners’ sugar floats on the two sheets of cooling cookies. Six dozen cookies done.