“I’ll get us some grandchildren, Louise. Or I’ll go down trying.”

ROXANNE HEARD IT from the kitchen, the sound of the mail slot creaking open and the stack of bills dropping onto the hardwood floor of the foyer. She slowly turned away from the sinkful of dirty dishes, the familiar sick feeling growing in her stomach. Grabbing a dish towel, she wiped her hands dry then started for the front door.

On the way, she made a detour. Instead of picking up the stack of bills, she opened the hall closet door and stepped inside. When the door was shut, blackness surrounded her. Only then could she allow the tears to come.

Her daily afternoon cries had been a two-year habit. At first, she’d cried out of sorrow and then out of anger. But now the tears had become a way of coping, of focusing all her emotions into a few minutes so she could get on with the business of life-the kids, the bills, the house that seemed to be crumbling around her.

Roxanne drew a deep breath and thought about all those things that usually started the tears-her husband’s infidelity, her deteriorating bank account, her loneliness. “And I’m never going to have sex again in my entire life,” she murmured.

Usually that was enough, but today the tears just wouldn’t start. Maybe she was dehydrated. She sat down on a box of mittens and scarves, listening to the sound of the television drifting out from the living room. Danny, Rachel, Michael and Jenna were watching Saturday afternoon cartoons and eating Jell-O cubes, their regular routine.