“She is four months old, Ethan.”

“I am trying to keep my job so we can pay the mortgage,” he said, his voice trailing off as his fingers started tapping the keyboard again.

I scooped June up against my chest.

Her fingers instantly reached for my shirt collar, clutching the fabric in tight, hot little fists.

The doorbell rang twice at nine thirty, short and tentative.

I opened the front door to find my mother, Martha, standing on the welcome mat in her heavy winter coat.

She carried a wide glass jar wrapped in a dish towel, holding it close to her waist.

“I brought the chicken broth,” Martha said, her voice slow and carefully pitched.

“I made it yesterday.”

“Mom, it is freezing out there,” I said, pulling her inside into the hallway warmth.

“You should not be driving after dark.”

“The roads are dry.” Martha walked into the living room and set the jar on the side table, immediately tucking both of her hands under a folded cloth napkin on her lap as she sat down.

I saw the fabric quiver.

The tremor in her right hand was worse than it had been on Tuesday, but she kept her chin up, offering a fragile smile.