Does Dylan think about their time together as often as she does? Does he think about her as often as she thinks of him? He promised that he wouldn’t. It’s why she didn’t want him to know her last name. He wouldn’t think of her or seek her out. She wishes that she could do the same, the not thinking part, that is.

She does wonder if he’s ever tried looking her up. He’s not on social media, but that hasn’t stopped her from posting photos on her Facebook profile with the privacy settings set to public. Just in case he’s curious about what she’s been up to. She’s tried to stop, but she can’t let go of him and those ten days.

Joy looks out the front window of the townhome she and Mark have lived in since they married. Mark’s parents bought the place several decades ago and leased it to them. A wedding present, even though it’s their names on the deed. It’s a beautiful home, with its loftlike openness and perfectly scaled bedrooms. Four bedrooms, to be precise. Three of them waiting to be filled.

A perfectly sized home in a perfect neighborhood that’s perfect for families.

No pressure to have one. None at all.

Joy sighs.

She does love the home and the street they live on. One day, she’ll join the moms’ club and walk her child to school just like the other moms that she watches through the window do. But that won’t be today, or any day soon.

Outside, the sky is a baby blanket blue, the air muggy and temperature hot. Inside, Joy sits on the couch in their front parlor with the AC blasting. Out of habit, her hand finds its way to her lower abdomen. Her empty lower abdomen.

Tears well.

Will she ever feel a baby growing inside her? Will she ever touch her belly and feel joy rather than sadness? Will she ever be able to give Mark the children he desperately wants?

An unexpected noise comes from the stoop, the scuff of shoes on concrete, drawing her attention. Keys jangle and the bolt unlatches. The front door opens, then closes, and there stands Mark in the parlor entryway. Perspiration sheens his forehead and darkens the pits of his lavender shirt, which is unbuttoned at the collar. He’s removed his tie and rolled up the sleeve cuffs. His suit jacket is draped over an arm. He looks at her with love and worry swirling in an elixir of frustration and disappointment.

“You’re home early,” she says. It’s only two in the afternoon.

“I’m worried about you, Joy.” Mark comes into the room.

“I’m okay.”

He sends her a look and she deflates. Even to her own ears she sounds unconvinced.