A long parade of cars is inching narcoleptically down the High Street, keeping Sylvia waiting at the intersection. She watches the traffic continue to pass, willing it to stop. Three more weeks; she needs to get a grip on herself. This is all her mother wants to see: the picturesque thatch. The baby skin. The pink-checked curtains. The hollyhocks. She’s here for a tour of her daughter’s heart, the nice part; she wants to see everything nice. There’s no need to give her anything more. She can protect herself; it’s only three more weeks.

“I’m sorry the day isn’t turning out as planned,” she apologizes stiffly, keeping her eyes on the passing cars.

“It’s just fine, darling, there’s no need to apologize,” Aurelia responds, relaxing at the milder tone in Sylvia’s voice. “I don’t know that you could see that cathedral in one afternoon anyway, and we’ve had a full day as it is. I’ll have a chance to study my Michelin before we go back. We still have lots of time this summer.”

“Right,” Sylvia replies with scant enthusiasm. The cars clear ahead of her. She steps lightly on the gas and pulls onto the High Street, heading west toward the river.

“I’m just glad we found that charming toy shop—was that on Gandy Street, with the oil lamps on the walls of the buildings? I do hope Frieda will like the paper dolls, don’t you? They’re not as pretty as the ones you used to paint—”

“I’m sure she’ll be very excited, Mother. But we should reinforce them with tape before you give them to her. Frieda’s a little young for paper anything. She’s still at the stage where ripping things up is endlessly fascinating.”

“Well, I hope not—they were expensive,” Aurelia says, a trace of hurt in her voice.

Ignore it, Sylvia thinks, both hands on the wheel.

“I would have thought they would carry more baby things in a toy store,” Aurelia says, veering the topic in a safer direction. “I did want to find something for Nick also.”

“He’s a baby, Mother,” Sylvia says. “He doesn’t need anything.”

“I don’t know about that,” Aurelia protests. “When you could hardly walk you formed your blocks into the shape of the Taj Mahal—”

Sylvia sighs. Here it comes.

“—just like the image on our bathroom rug. Babies are brighter than you think.”

“Mother, I know,” Sylvia says, growing exasperated. “I know about babies. But you gave both of the children piles of presents a week ago. They don’t need anything more. They’re too young to know the difference.”