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Anne’s head pounded. What did this guest think about the president? She shuffled her notes, unsure of what to ask. She couldn’t recall if he was pro or con.

William sat across from her, a hand on each knee, arms bent at the elbows, eyebrows slightly raised. He remembered how his dad had sat that way at the dinner table, looking at his mother. He had tried to read the looks between them for 18 years and still didn’t know if his dad had been appeasing or respecting his mother. Now he looked at Anne, realizing it had always been both.

Jayati was very excited. She had been waiting for this moment for months.

No sooner had her parents brought him home than Jayati got down to sending multiple messages announcing, “Please welcome our new family member.”

The news created a flutter. Even for their close acquaintances, it was completely unexpected. There had been no signs, no baby bump. Mr. and Mrs. Joshi were well past the “good news” age.

The overwhelming congratulatory messages, with inquiries about Mrs. Joshi’s health, made them realize their daughter’s faux pas.

Still they felt amused replying to perplexed queries of “boy or girl?” with “a pup!”

Lucy and her friends dropped acid and hung out in her parents’ backyard. Some entertained themselves by ripping out blades of grass, while others strummed extended versions of old Neil Young songs. Still others attempted to match the passing clouds with celebrity faces.

The mood darkened when Lucy’s cats decided to go AWOL. Everyone joined in on the search, traversing the neighborhood, yelling “Here, kitty, kitty,” but to no avail.

The once serene day turned into the reality of night, as everything morphed back to normalcy. Bad news for the cats: they were never seen again, at least by anything human.

Day one, she was stunned.

Day two, her body felt broken.

Day three, she cried seventeen times. About the pain. The overwhelming responsibility. Orphans on the news. Her swollen feet.

Between tears, flashes of wonder. He slept in her arms and she felt that’s what they’d been for, all along. She called him Asher, for happy; whispered it until it was just a sound.

Day four. It might’ve been her milk coming, or the awkward call to Asher’s father, that cracked her. It might’ve been Asher snuffling and resettling himself. Or the realisation that this was everything, now, that fixed her.