It was the closest she’d come to asking for help. I nodded.

She rose slowly and I walked beside her to the bedroom door, stopping at the threshold. Inside, her room was small and neat — a narrow bed, a green-shaded lamp, curtains patterned with tiny birds.

On the dresser stood one framed photograph. At first I didn’t recognize it. Then I did.

It wasn’t from our wedding. Not from a vacation. Not from any smiling occasion people usually frame. It was a picture of our hands wrapped around two paper cups of hospital coffee.

The first pregnancy. The first scare. The first time we thought fear was temporary because hope was still stronger. My thumb was pressed against hers.

She noticed me looking. “I meant to put it away,” she said. “I kept forgetting.”