Her husband, Frank, was thin too and very tall, like an elderly, stooped basketball player. Ellen saw how grief had dragged at their faces, like faded claw marks.

They seemed like shy people, but they were all smiles, gracious and welcoming, chatting about the traffic and the weather. It broke Ellen’s heart. If only they weren’t so damned nice.

“What Ellen really needs is a dry cracker,” said Patrick. “She’s feeling nauseous. The, ah, pregnancy, you know.” Did she imagine that he’d lowered his voice on the word “pregnancy” like it was a shameful disorder?

“I’ll get you one straightaway,” said Millie.

“I had some ready at home, but then I forgot to bring them. I’m so sorry to be a nuisance,” Ellen babbled, as if asking for a cracker was a huge inconvenience, when what she really meant was that she was so sorry to be there at all, inconveniently alive and pregnant, taking their daughter’s place.

“When I was pregnant with Colleen I ate dry biscuits all day long,” said Millie, as she handed over the plate. “But then when she was pregnant with Jack the lucky girl didn’t get any nausea at all.”

She smiled at her grandson. “You were such a well-behaved baby, Jack, even before you were born.” She turned back to Ellen. “Not that I mean your own little baby isn’t well behaved.”

As Millie spoke, Ellen caught sight of a framed photo on the wall of Colleen holding Jack when he must have been about six months old. She was smiling adoringly down at him, while Jack gnawed on the leg of a toy rabbit.

That’s when it happened.

She burst into tears, choking on her cracker, spraying crumbs, causing everyone to stare at her with alarm and astonishment.

What are you doing? It was as though her body had done something unmentionable in polite company, like an explosive fart. Stop it, she ordered herself, but the tears kept sliding down her face.

It was a combination of the adoration on Colleen’s face in the picture, the exquisite relief of eating the cracker, the warmth of the house after the cold mountain air, Millie saying, “Your little baby,” the strangeness and stress of the graveyard visit, the fact that she was meeting her father for the first time the following day—oh, who knew what it was, except that her emotions had never embarrassed her like this before.

“Hey now,” said Frank, and he came over to where she was sitting, squatted down on his long spidery legs and rubbed her back in gentle circular motions.

Lucky Colleen to have grown up with a lovely father like Frank.

“What’s wrong, Ellen?” asked Jack.

He’d looked to his father, but Patrick was no help. He had the stunned expression of someone whose girlfriend has just knocked over a priceless vase. He’d kept up a steady stream of conversation ever since he’d walked in the house, his voice light and chatty but with a panicky undertone, as if he was trying to distract someone from jumping off a cliff by talking about ordinary things while he waited for the police. Ellen had never seen him talk so much, and she saw that these visits were a huge effort for him, and that he was determined to ensure there were no conversational gaps or uncomfortable silences that might allow for horrible displays of grief. Now she’d upset the delicate balance he was working so hard to maintain.

“So sorry,” she finally sniffed. “It must be my hormones.”

Hormones, hormones, hormones. It was all she talked about lately, and yet, she’d never believed in blaming her body for her behavior! She’d always believed that the mind-body connection was more likely to operate in the other direction: the mind affecting the body, not the body affecting the mind. If a client had described this irrational behavior and then tried to blame it on hormones, she would have said (in such a soothing, know-it-all tone!), “I suspect this is your body’s way of trying to pass on a message from your subconscious.”

Patrick finally recovered enough to move over and hug her.

“You’re probably just exhausted from the drive,” he said, speaking in his normal voice, and the relief of feeling his arms around her and breathing in his familiar Patrick scent nearly made her cry again.

“So sorry,” she said shakily.

“Don’t think anything of it,” Frank and Millie soothed.

She worked hard to redeem herself over lunch, following Patrick’s bright, chatty lead. They bounced the conversation rapidly back and forth across the table, without letting it drop once, like a frantic game of hot potato. When they were ready to leave, she noticed that Frank and Millie looked drained. They probably wished the two of them had just shut up for a second.

“We hope to see you next month, my dear,” said Millie, and she put her hand on Ellen’s arm. For one dreadful moment Ellen felt more tears threatening, but she fought them back with sheer force of will.

Nobody said anything as they drove out of Katoomba. Jack seemed to be slumbering in the backseat. Finally, Ellen couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I’m sorry about my unexpected weeping back there,” she said, as if the word “weeping” would turn it into a charming, rather fascinating little incident.

“It’s fine,” said Patrick. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

That’s where she should have left it.

“They must have found it so difficult,” she said. “Meeting me, and the new baby.”

“Yes,” he said. “Although of course you were the one doing the crying!”