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imprinted with a sketch of what looked like the Dreiser Homes on the South Side of Chicago, where she’d grown up.
    Susan read the back of the card and broke into a smile. A reunion luncheon. What a fabulous idea! She hadn’t seen Pat, Grace, and Elyse in too long, anyway. As the event’s organizer, Pat was sure to be there, and Grace would definitely be an attendee. She couldn’t be so sure about Elyse, who lived nearly as far away from the South Side as she did.
    For thirteen years, ever since marrying Bruce Dillahunt, Susan had called the town of Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin, home. The town’s name described it perfectly. It was located on Lake Michigan, just over the Wisconsin border, and featured quaint reminders of small-town life like a drive-in theater and a Piggly Wiggly, the Southern supermarket chain that had few stores in Illinois but a strong presence in Wisconsin. The nearest small city was Kenosha, to the north, and if she wanted a big-city atmosphere she had to drive past Kenosha to Milwaukee, which was slightly closer to her than Chicago.
    Susan read the card again. The luncheon would be held in just two weeks. She’d have to wear something nice. She wanted to look good. And healthy. It would defeat the whole purpose of going if she looked haggard and ill.
    She tossed the rest of the mail into the recycling bin. The reunion postcard went in the zippered side compartment of her handbag.
    In her bedroom she stood before her dresser, staring at her reflection in the mirror that hung above it. Slowly she turned to the left, then to the right. She looked fine. Thanks to a good-fitting bra with extra control along the upper sides, no telltale lumps gave away her secret.
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    Susan waited at the curb, leaning on the car. When school let out at three, she ventured only a few feet away to talk to other mothers she knew from this daily errand. She was cordial to them, if not overly friendly. At forty-nine, she felt out of place next to women fifteen years younger than she. She hadn’t thought about being an older mother when she gave birth to Quentin at age thirty-nine and Alyssa at forty-two; but seeing these young mothers in their late twenties or early thirties, and the even younger nannies who picked up their charges while their employers worked at high-powered positions, never failed to remind her that more than half her life was behind her. She’d been so afraid that her illness would age her prematurely and make her look more like her children’s grandmother, and felt relieved when it hadn’t. She’d begun to go gray even before her diagnosis. Her facial skin felt looser these days, but it didn’t sag. She looked like a woman in her late forties, which was exactly what she was.
    Alyssa gave her a quick hug, but Quentin simply greeted her and climbed into the backseat. Susan knew he didn’t want any of his fifth-grade friends to see him hugging his mother.
    â€œHow was school today?” she asked as she steered away from the curb.
    Quentin grunted. “Same old same old,” he said.
    â€œNothing new,” Alyssa added.
    â€œWell, I’ve got some news for you. Y’all are going to come along with me on a little excursion in a few weeks.”
    Both children immediately perked up. “Where’re we going, Mom? Skiing? To the Dells?”
    She chuckled. “Nowhere like that. This is just for an afternoon. I’m going to bring you to Chicago to see where I grew up.”
    â€œAnd then what?” Alyssa asked.
    â€œAnd then . . . then we’re going to have lunch with some people I grew up with.”
    Susan realized too late that to kids their age it sounded none too exciting, and that they probably wouldn’t even want to go, but it wasn’t like she could depend on Bruce to accompany her. He barely wanted to sleep with her since her lumpectomy. How could she expect him to escort her anywhere? She didn’t want