“She’s four months old, Ethan.”

“I’m trying to keep my job so we can pay the mortgage,” he said, his voice fading as his fingers began tapping the keyboard again.

I lifted June against my chest.

Her fingers immediately grabbed my shirt collar, gripping the fabric in tight, hot little fists.

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

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

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

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

“I made it yesterday.”

“Mom, it’s freezing out there,” I said, pulling her into the warmth of the hallway.

“You shouldn’t be driving after dark.”

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

I saw the fabric tremble.

The shaking in her right hand was worse than it had been on Tuesday, but she kept her chin up and gave me a fragile smile.