The pain was different from the way she’d felt when her mother died or with Peter. It had been possible then to compartmentalize, however ineptly, the grief, to whittle it down into smaller sections. Losing September was not like that. There was no moment when she did not remember what had happened and feel the pressure of that remembering up and down her arms, curled in her stomach, knotted in her hair, digging like nodules into her skin. She lay on the bed and waited for her to come back but she could not lie there forever. She had another daughter.
