With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Beth Kephart lives in Devon, Pennsylvania, and is at work on a novel titled Comfort in Dying.
Imagining motherhood is like imagining old age: there are no reliable forecasts. I assumed I would know more. While pregnant, I supposed that mothers’ intuition was a hard, certain thing, a perpetually replenished reservoir of basic instinct.