But Diane lived ten minutes from us. Ben’s father had left when Ben was a teenager, and it had been just the two of them for a long time. She was a retired school secretary with silver hair cut in a sharp bob, and she had a way of showing up exactly when I needed someone.
The day I found out the Clomid hadn’t worked for the third month in a row, she showed up with chicken soup.
“How did you know?” I asked, standing in the doorway in my sweatpants with my eyes swollen.
“Ben called me,” she said, stepping inside. “He said you might need some company.”
She heated the soup on my stove and made me sit at the kitchen table. She didn’t push me to talk. She just sat across from me while I ate, and every few minutes she’d reach over and squeeze my hand.
