Adam’s size at birth—nearly nine pounds—and his eagerness to leave the womb had weakened her cervix, Dr. Fielding explained. She might need a cerclage to carry the baby to term. The word “cerclage” sounded French and lovely, like something you might find at a patisserie, or an aperitif. It sounded much less terrifying than “stitching up your vagina to keep the baby in.”

“An incompetent cervix is manageable,” Dr. Fielding said. “Not that I’m calling it that at this point.”

“Incompetent.” The word stung.

Three girls walked through the juniors’ department, laughing. Two of them, blondes, were dressed nearly identically in miniskirts without tights, ankle boots, and thin fitted jackets. A brunette in a practical-looking red parka and clogs was between them. Suzanne flashed forward to her own daughter, several years from now, out shopping with friends. One of the blondes wasn’t a girl, Suzanne saw now, but a woman: Kaye Cox; the other was her daughter, Lindy. The brunette was Jillian Miller.

Suzanne nearly called out a hello, but Jillian disappeared behind a rack of blouses before she had the chance. Suzanne thought about going over to her, but it sounded tiring. And she would have to talk to Kaye. She picked up her shopping bags instead, and slipped out of the store.

JILLIAN PULLED A SHIRT OFF THE RACK AND HELD IT UP, AS IF CONSIDERING it. What in the world was Adam’s mom doing here? Had her mom sent her to spy on her? Would there be a note on the bulletin board the next day? Jillian went to the mall without her mother’s permission.

“That is so ugly,” Lindy said, tugging on a sleeve.

“I know, right?” Jillian said. It was ugly, an odd mixture of pink and olive green with kimono-style sleeves. She looked over the top of the hanger to see if Suzanne had seen her, but she was leaving. Phew. Jillian put the shirt back on the rack, pretending to consider another equally ugly shirt, giving Suzanne time to disappear before they continued to their destination.

After school today Lindy had decided Jillian needed new clothes. Her clothes were crap. She needed to work on her brand. She’d grabbed Jillian by the arm and pulled her downstairs, to the kitchen, where Kaye sat thumbing through a catalog. “We are going to the mall right now, Mom. We have work to do!”

Kaye seemed as eager as Lindy. “What fun!” Jakey was on a playdate, so it was perfect. “Just perfect.”

“You’re just dropping us off,” Lindy said.

Kaye’s expression slid from happy to sad, like a pair of emojis. “I’ll just walk in with you. I have a little shopping of my own to do.”