I don’t tell you that I cried at that painting in the city, the one with the little baby Jesus and Saint Catherine holding his perfect little hand to her cheek. She was so at peace, so blessed with her lips against his pinkie. And the Virgin Mary—so beautiful with her head against her son’s, his delicate fingers squeezing her blue robe so tight. Maybe it was the room, the light, the space, I don’t know, but when I looked in her eyes, something divine happened. But God knows we can’t talk about mothers in this house any more.

When I catch myself crying at the pet food commercial with the little girl and her dog, I go to bed thinking about how I’ve been spotting and the cancer that killed Cousin Kathy. I lie awake with back pain, imagining cysts on scans while you’re “out”.

I take the Wagon over to church where I tell Father Obosi I think I’m sick, that I’m afraid if I die, I’ll never be with God in Eternity. He says God doesn’t punish us for our mistakes. In his office I let myself say financed by crime. I tell him you’re unfaithful but a good man, and when I say I love you, God help me, Tony, I mean it. He says I must learn to live on only what the good part of your life earns, and I cover my new Harry Winston ring in shame. On the drive home I decide this part can afford groceries, bills, clothes, Meadow’s college fees and the cars.

I call Doctor Rotelli’s office when you’re down in the basement, right before I plate the chicken parm. At the appointment, he passes the transducer over my ovaries and I say tell me right out and don’t mince words, like someone in a movie. Like you.

In the morning, I fix my hair and makeup while you’re snoring, then go down to read the pamphlet on hypothyroidism in the kitchen. You come down around twelve and I hand you your coffee, point to the new juice in the fridge. You go to get the paper from the drive, the back of your hair like a nest.

When I take the ring off, I hold its sapphire to the light before burying it in my underwear drawer. I touch the small cross at my neck and remember the Father’s words: God understands we live in the middle of tensions. Downstairs, I wash my hands and make lemon snaps for the church bake sale.

Later, when you come home and say I look good today, I consider your face—that expression where the little boy you were peeks through—and wonder what guilt has caused this peace offering. When you ask about the ring, I stretch my finger out as if I’m seeing it bare for the first time and hope you don’t notice the pause before I say, I had to get it sized. It’s a little big.