“Sunshine?” She doesn’t respond, so I follow her in and find her opening the freezer and shoving no fewer than four half-gallon containers of ice cream into it. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like?” she snaps. “You get knocked up?” She whirls around on me. “What?” Guess not. I hold my hands up, palms out in surrender. She’s obviously not in the mood. “Sorry, just”—I motion toward the open freezer, her hand still inside on one of the containers—“a lot of ice cream.” “Right, because I’d have to be pregnant to want ice cream. Next you’ll be saying that I must have my period because
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