For as long as I can remember, my mother—whom I resemble closely enough that strangers sometimes treat us like before-and-after photos—has narrated certain facts about herself in the first-person plural, joining us together in a small, unlucky demographic damned by extremely minor curses. We don’t look good in red. We should never wear silver jewelry. One pronouncement surfaced more frequently than the others: We will get osteoporosis. Her mother had it, she would say, and so did her grandmother.