Inside in the living room, Sam’s TV show has given way to a commercial break, and I sink onto the sofa to the sound of perky voices touting car insurance, followed by the Grinch advertising the Christmas gift of 23AndMe. Sam chuckles along as the cranky Grinch uncovers his genetic history.

“Hilarious,” Sam says of the ad and turns to me.

“Aunt G, can you do Spock hands?” He demonstrates one of those it’s-in-your-genes party tricks I’ve never been able to manage.

I shake my head.

“This guy in my grade can wiggle his ears,” Sam adds. “All his brothers can too.”

I sigh and wonder why this stuff even matters to us.

I remember the first time I heard that Kahlil Gibran poem: Your children are not your children, it begins. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

So why does it matter to everyone—and why does it matter to me—that a child I raise should have my smile, or Oliver’s nose, or our love of pistachio nuts? Is it just some kind of narcissism? And if it is, why do I want it so much?

*

It’s only as I’m getting ready for bed that I remember I never did my ovulation test this morning. I’m usually really careful around this time of the month, but admittedly I’ve been pretty distracted the last few days.

I get the test strips out from under the sink where they live next to the army of pregnancy tests I bought in bulk online, back in more optimistic days. I thought I was overdoing it; I never thought I’d need this many.

And there it is: a dark blue line. I verify it on the digital reader, picturing Oliver over at Dev’s house with his buddies. I guess Dev didn’t “kick them out early” after all.

Are you coming back soon? I text.

Oliver doesn’t text back.

Fifteen minutes later I decide to call—I don’t care if it’s embarrassing for him, he can make something up—but the call goes to voicemail and I grit my teeth. Of course it would be tonight.

I go to bed intending to stay awake until he gets home, but once it’s midnight I decide there’s no point and I might as well get some sleep. But now, of course, I’m seething so much that I can do nothing but toss and turn until I hear the car, the footsteps, the swing of the front door.

He takes long enough coming up the stairs that I know he’s drunk. He shuffles into the bedroom as I sit up and turn on the light.

“Son of a-!” Startled, he grabs the door frame for stability. “Gillian! You scared me. I was tryna be quiet.”

He smells like beer and his words sound loose.