“We’re going to compensate her,” I say, desperate not to sound like we’re taking advantage. “We’re going to send her to graduate school in graphic arts.”

“Perhaps. But you have to know, she’d do it even if you weren’t paying her a penny.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I think she would.”

“Well, anyhow.” Mrs. Johnson lets out a sigh. “What information do you need about my Monica?”

I look at the list Sam scribbled out for me in his nearly illegible handwriting. “I guess… I was wondering if there are any serious illnesses that run in the family.”

“My mother has the diabetes,” she says thoughtfully. “But she’s still living. Monica’s father is healthy—well, no, a little bit of high blood pressure. Monica’s always been healthy as a horse.”

“Any…” I look at the next question and wince. “Any history of mental illness?”

“Mental illness?” Mrs. Johnson repeats. “You mean craziness? No, of course not! What sort of family do you think this is?”

“I, um…”

“Look, my Monica is a good girl,” she says. “Always did well in school, always was kind to everyone. I have to be honest with you, Mrs. Adler, I told Monica not to do this. That we’d find another way to raise the money for her to go back to school. But she wanted to do it. And now it feels like… what’s the expression? You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

I fold Sam’s notes in half and push them across my desk. “You’re right, Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.”

I thank her again, but as I put down my phone, there’s something tugging at the back of my mind. Something not entirely right. But that makes no sense. Mrs. Johnson was perfectly nice, especially given what we’re proposing to her daughter. Nothing she said raised any kind of red flag.

So what is that nagging feeling that I’m missing something?

_____

There’s a baby in a booster seat at the table next to mine. An adorable little girl with beautiful blond curls. She’s got a handful of Cheerios sprinkled all over her tray and she’s picking them up awkwardly and stuffing them in her mouth. I watch her, trying to ignore the growing ache in my chest. I almost had a baby. I was so close.

“Chee-wo,” the little girl informs me.

I smile at her. Why are kids so cute? Denise doesn’t find children cute. She could look at a little girl like this one, shrug her shoulders, and go right back to texting on her phone.