I know her best, though. I know she gets nervous whenever she’s scheduled to meet a new client. I know she can’t handle scary movies. At all. I know she obsesses over her plants and even talks to them. She doesn’t know I know that, but I overheard her one day—adorable. I know strong storms freak her out, and British TV mellows her. I know she prefers showering with me rather than without me, and often can’t sleep if I’m not beside her. I know she loves our life together. She’s brought beauty and energy to my minimalist cabin—it’s almost greener inside than it is outside now. Sitting on our dock or back porch together is her favorite thing to do. And she’s taken quite a shine to Blackbeard (he follows her around the house like he’s in love with her). He’ll even jump between us on the couch and lay his head in her lap—commandeering my spot beside her is the most pirate-y thing he’s ever done. I know that despite her sunshine persona, Marina’s a surprising introvert. She craves time to herself, and, especially, time with me.

Lately, though, she’s practiced avoidance, reminding me of myself before her. She claims that it’s a tough client keeping her distracted.

I know better.

At Christmas, my brother Colin announced that he and Tamsyn were expecting their third child. A month later, at our family game night, Luke’s wife, Willow, said they were pregnant, too. Both times came the inevitable well-meaning but insensitive backlash.

“You’re next, Marnie!”

“Can’t wait to plan your baby shower.”

“You’ll get your turn!”

“You’ll make such a great mom.”

I was about to tell them to fuck off, but she stopped me. “Wouldn’t that be something?” has become her typical response.

I tried talking to her afterward, and she said it didn’t bother her. But I doubt that’s true. Not because either of us needs a child to feel complete—we don’t. But it’s the expectation that’s frustrating. An expectation that surely puts stress on her shoulders and, at least, makes her uncomfortable in situations like that. What is she supposed to do? Ruin everyone’s celebration with the truth?

Nah. Marina’s too kind for that.

More than that, though, I wonder if those awful feelings of inadequacy embedded by society and reinforced by the Sullivans have snaked their way back into her head. Does she feel like something’s missing? I remember (vaguely) what it was like to be in my twenties. You think you can do anything, and most of the time, it’s true. A story that diverges from the typical plot lines might feel like less of a story, even though it isn’t, especially when everyone around you follows the same formula.