I took my breakup quietly, like a pitiful February rain with no lightning.

One unremarkable March day, a man began puncturing random holes in his withered pasture with a post-hole digger.

In the dark, from my twin bed, I listen to Romy and her latest visitor in the sheets.

She was eight and at the beach and she felt like a movie star.

Inside the ovaries of my husband’s grandmother, Sylvie, resided an egg the size of a grain of sand that would have been Hannah, my brilliant and accomplished mother-in-law.