“It’ll take three hours, Mom. I’ll call when I get there.” She’d heard that promise before, with a belated apology for forgetting. Still, after five hours, she grew nervous. When the phone rang seven hours later, she vacillated between relief, anger, and dread. She picked up. “Mom?” asked a tremulous voice.

Ann S. Epstein writes stories as short and pithy as her stature, and novels as broad and deep as her mind.