Lucia took Mia to lunch in April—just the two of them, at a small restaurant in Coral Gables that Lucia had apparently been frequenting for thirty years, where the staff greeted her by name and brought her usual order without asking.
"I wanted to talk to you," Lucia said, once they'd ordered, "about something that isn't really my business, except that I've decided it is."
"That sounds ominous," Mia said.
"It's not," Lucia said. "It's just—direct. I find directness is usually kinder than the alternative, even when it's uncomfortable in the moment." She looked at Mia steadily. "Have you thought about whether you want more children?"
Mia blinked. "That's—direct."
"I said it would be," Lucia said, unbothered.
"I haven't really thought about it," Mia said, honestly. "Charlotte's seven mon
