She smiles thinly and points me toward the hallway when I don’t move. “Your room is that way, love.”
I nod again and totter away. When I reemerge a few minutes later in baggy flannel pajamas, Emma has two mugs of coffee waiting on the table in front of the sofa. She hands me one. I cup its heat in my palms and breathe in the scent. It’s oddly grounding. But when I take a tentative sip, my stomach churns horribly.
Emma is watching me with a careful eye from her spot on the couch. It’s funny—even in the worst crisis of my life, we both automatically flock to the spots we always sit in. She’s got her foot tucked up under her and her head tilted to the side, the same way she always did when we used to stay up late, binging whatever weird pregnancy craving I was having and talking about the f
