Like almost everyone else of her generation, she still felt young. Was it possible it had been eighteen years since she was back in Sacramento, writing on local politics for the Bee? Sometimes, closing her eyes, she could see herself, hair still shoulder length, wearing one of those ridiculous pants suits, working away at her heavy old Underwood, struggling to meet a deadline.

But the regrets rarely lingered. The choice to set aside a promising career had been hers alone, prompted not only by altered circumstances but by a changed sense of herself. Fourteen years ago, when Charlie was born, she had wanted to stay home—and considered herself immensely fortunate to be in a position to do so. She wanted to watch her children grow up, to be there when they needed her. Seven years later, by the time her second child, Allison, was old enough for school, her old life no longer seemed feasible. Now, unavoidably, John’s career came first. Sacramento was only pleasant memories, the house where they’d lived then replaced by a larger one, before they’d ended up here. When she entered a newspaper office now—struck by the silence, computers having replaced clattering typewriters—it was always at her husband’s side.

True enough, over the years she’d sometimes resented this. It wasn’t easy living in the shadow of a rising political star. Always, the moment he entered a public place, he changed, his eyes turning hard even as his cheek muscles fixed in a grin. His frequent absences were especially hard on the children.

Still, she told people theirs was a good marriage, and unlike most political spouses, she meant it. Maybe it wasn’t so rock solid as that her parents had made, but what else was new? These were changed times, difficult times. If John was ambitious, well, wasn’t that part of the reason she’d married him?

Above all, she respected him. She alone knew how much he agonized over the compromises he felt bound to make; and how often, under fire, he struggled to remain true to his best self. She saw herself as an essential part of that process, a partner in far more than name only. He trusted her absolutely.

Perhaps even more, she realized now, than she trusted him. For almost a week after the gnawing ache in her lower back returned, she failed to mention it to him. After all, the doctor was still reassuring. He said he was suggesting a biopsy only as a precaution. (As a precaution for whom? she thought, with reflexive irreverence. Whose future was he REALLY worried about?)

She finally agreed because it was easier than fighting it. Anyway, it would put her own mind at ease.

Still, she decided not to tell John. It just wasn’t a good time, he had so much on his mind. She’d let him know afterward, when the results came in, when she was free and clear.

The biopsy was set for day after tomorrow. Looking in the mirror, she again succeeded in quieting the doubts. This was not a sick woman staring back at her. This was a woman who looked exactly as she felt—unbelievably young.