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saying anything,” she maintained. “All I’m saying is that doctors like to cover for themselves. Babies don’t just die, Sally. There’s always a reason. But if the doctors are too lazy to find the reason, or don’t know enough, they call it crib death. But there is always a reason,” she repeated. Her eyes moved from Sally to Steve, then back to Sally. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “I’m going to stay here for a few days—I’ll take care of Jason and the house. Don’t either of you worry about anything.”
    “Thanks, Phyl,” Steve said quietly. “Thanks.”
    “Isn’t that what mothers are for?” Phyllis asked. “To take care of their children?” Her eyes settled once more on Sally, then she turned and went back up the stairs. A moment later they heard her talking to Jason, and Jason’s own voice, piping loud as he pummeled his grandmother with questions. Sally was silent for a long time, then she spoke to Steve without looking at him.
    “She thinks I did something to Julie,” she said dully. “Or didn’t do something. She thinks it was my fault.”
    Inwardly, Steve groaned at the hopelessness in his wife’s voice, and reached out to hold her. “No, honey, she doesn’t think that at all. It’s just-it’s just Phyllis. You know how she is.”
    Sally nodded. I know how she is, she thought. But does she know how I am? Does she know me? Her train of thought was broken as Jason came pounding down the stairs. He stood in the middle of the floor, his pajamas falling down, his hands on his hips.
    “What happened to Julie?” he asked.
    Steve bit his lip. How could he explain it? How could he explain death to an eight-year-old, when he didn’t even understand it himself? “Julie died,” he said. “We don’t know why. She …she just died.”
    Jason was silent, his eyes thoughtful. And then he nodded, and frowned slightly. “Do I have to go to school today?” he asked.
    Too tired, too shocked, too drained to recognize the innocence of her son’s words, Sally only heard their naive callousness. “Of course you have to go to school today,” she screamed. “Do you think I can take care of you? Do you think I can do everything? Do you think …” Her voice failed her, and she collapsed, sobbing, back onto the sofa as her mother hurried down the stairs. Jason, his face pale with bafflement and hurt, stared at his mother, then at his father.
    “It’s all right,” Phyllis told him, scooping him into her arms. “Of course you don’t have to go to school today. You go upstairs and get dressed, then I’ll fix your breakfast. Okay?” She kissed the boy on the cheek and put him back on the floor.
    “Okay, Grandma,” Jason said softly. Then, with another curious glance at his parents, he ran up the stairs.
    When he was gone, Steve put his arms around his wife. “Go to bed, sweetheart,” he begged. “You’re worn out, and Phyllis can handle everything. We’ll take care of you, and everything will be all right. Please?”
    Too exhausted to protest, Sally let herself be led upstairs, let Steve undress her and put her to bed, let him tuck her in. But when he had kissed her and left her alone, she didn’t sleep.
    Instead, she remembered her mother’s words. “Isn’t that what mothers are for? To take care of their children?” It was an accusation, and Sally knew it. And she knew, deep in her heart, that she had no answer for the accusation. Perhaps she had done something—or not done something—that had caused Julie to die.
    Hadn’t she considered aborting Julie? Hadn’t she and Steve talked about it for a long time, trying to decide whether they really wanted another child? Hadn’t they, finally, talked until it was too late?
    But they had loved Julie once she was born. Loved her as much as Jason, maybe even more.
    Or had they?
    Maybe they had only pretended to love her because they knew it was their duty: You have to love your children.
    Maybe she hadn’t loved Julie