Halfway to Ravenswood she asked me to stop at a pharmacy. “The hospital gave me enough for tonight, but I need soup, crackers, and lemon drops.”

Lemon drops caught me off guard. During her first pregnancy, nausea had turned them into a household necessity; she’d kept them in every coat pocket, every purse, every drawer.

She must have seen the memory cross my face, because her expression closed. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t apologize for remembering your own life.”

The sentence surprised us both. She turned and looked at me through the dim light in the car, and for one brief second something unguarded passed across her face.

Then it was gone.