“You reach a point where you can’t pretend to be strong anymore.”

I wanted to believe her, because believing her was easier, and because my husband had already told me there was nothing to worry about.

And then one afternoon, pouring me a cup of coffee, she dropped the mug.

It shattered on the tile floor, and out of her came a low, whimpering gasp that she tried instantly to swallow back — a sound of pain so involuntary and so quickly hidden that it made my blood run cold, because it was the sound of pain a person has learned to hide.

“How long,” I said, kneeling in the broken ceramic, taking her hands, “has it been hurting you like this?”

“Don’t start, Maya.”