I stayed frozen on my stool, unsure whether I should go to her or give her space. My heart was pounding, and my throat was thick with dread.

“I’m sorry, Low,” she said through her hands. “This isn’t about you.” Then she lifted her beautiful face. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

There was no joy in her voice, so I didn’t have to fake any. Because I was not joyful, not joyful at all. I didn’t want to share Freya with some needy, clingy, sniveling infant. I’d just been run out of my home by one baby; now another was threatening my territory.

“Oh no,” I said softly.

Freya sighed. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think I could conceive.”

Silence hung heavy between us. I was at a loss for words, stunned by her news. Maybe I shouldn’t have been; Freya was a married woman of childbearing age, but she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. When I’d told her that Eckhart had been born, she’d wrinkled her nose in distaste before muttering, “Congrats, I guess.” On more than one occasion, she had commented on my mother’s mental health for having four children. And for having another baby at forty-two. She said things like:

“Is your mom trying to fill some emotional void by having all those kids?”

And:

“Is your mom on crack?”

She’d told me about her crazy mother and their fraught, on-again, off-again (mostly off-again) relationship. I simply couldn’t imagine Freya as a parent.

She moved to the small paned window and stared out into her driveway. “My periods have always been sporadic,” she explained. “I just thought I was getting fat.” She turned back toward me. “I don’t even know if I’m going to keep it. But I’m already in my second trimester.”

I should have said something to make her feel better about this terrible mistake; that was my role as her friend and confidante. But all I wanted to say was: Get rid of it. Make it go away before it ruins your life and mine! I couldn’t be so callous, of course, but the words of support would not come.

Then she said, “Promise me you won’t tell Jamie.”

“Jamie?”

“She wants a baby so badly, and she can’t have one. This will devastate her.”

My employer had never mentioned her desire to be a mother, but I guess it made sense. Whenever an infant or toddler came into the store, she was all over it. After, she’d seem wistful, lost in thought, even tearful. During our hours together, Jamie often tried to engage me in conversation. When I remained uncommunicative, she’d babble on about her former marketing career, her husband’s fantasy trilogy, her college experiences at the University of British Columbia. But my boss had never admitted she wanted a family.

“I won’t tell her.”

“Thanks,” Freya muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to lie down. Clean up the mess in the kiln.”