She woke in the mornings pale as a ghost.

And sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, she would go very still, and press one hand flat against her abdomen, and wait, with her eyes closed, for something inside her to pass.

“Mom,” I said, one afternoon.

“That is not normal.”

She smiled at me, but the smile did not reach her eyes, which had gone dim and far away.

“It’s just old age, honey,” she said.