THE house held a golden hush, the kind that fell between lunch and the deepening afternoon, when light pooled in the corners and even the dust motes seemed to breathe slower. Amelia sat heavy on the couch, one arm draped over her bump, the other curled around a cushion like a talisman. The weights of the lives inside her was steady and real beneath her palm; it grounded her in a way nothing else had lately.
Across from her, Clara lounged on the other sofa, one ankle tucked under her, eyes sympathetic and soft. The two friends turned sisters had fallen into a rhythm of awkward ease, words flowing, stopping, then starting again as if testing the temperature of each other’s feelings. Outside, somewhere down the hall, the faint clatter of the house reminded them life had to keep going: Hazel’
