Her answer was always the same, delivered with the same two-beat cheer, and her sister cited it as proof that she was fine. The second mortgage closed in April. She hosted the block party in June, made two trays of deviled eggs, and told the neighbors the kitchen renovation was going great, standing in a room that had been studs and plastic sheeting since Christmas.

By fifty-one the smile had gone mechanical, and she practiced it in the visor mirror before going into anywhere at all. Her son asked once, directly, in the car, and she said never better and turned up the radio. He was fourteen. He learned that the question was not welcome, and he did not ask again, and years later neither of them could remember who stopped first.