One morning, her disposition seemed darker than usual. There were circles under her eyes and her shiny hair was dull and lank. She muttered hey and then disappeared into the kiln room. I was getting used to her moods by now. It was best to stay quiet, keep my head down, and let her work through her emotions. Eventually, my lovely, charming Freya would return. But that day, as I was staining the veins on a butterfly’s wings, she stormed toward me.

“You got glaze all over the kiln shelves, you moron! Your stupid fucking pots are fused to them!”

Freya had been cranky and snappish toward me, but she had never verbally assaulted me before. I was shocked by the intensity of her anger. Setting down my brush, I managed to croak out a response. “They can’t be. I waxed the bottoms.”

“Oh, okay . . .” Sarcasm dripped off her words. “I guess I just imagined the fucking mess in there.”

“I-I’ll take care of it,” I stammered. “I’ll buy you a new shelf.”

“This is a specialized gas kiln! Where are you going to buy a shelf for it on this godforsaken island?” She was falling apart, and it wasn’t over a kiln shelf. Something else was wrong. Very wrong.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No! No, I’m fucking not.” She turned away and dropped her head into her hands.

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?”