In the first year that they tried, everyone told her not to worry, that it takes time. That all she needed to do was relax. In the second year, the advice changed: it turned out that maybe she should be worried, and that she might want to see someone. Suddenly she was inundated with recommendations for fertility doctors, acupuncturists, and herbal supplements. Now, at the end of year three, she had tried multiple doctors and medications, and she avoided talking about it with friends as much as possible.

The next step was IVF, but Ted had drawn the line there. “If it’s not happening,” he said, “maybe it’s not meant to be.” It was one of the many platitudes about fertility that made her insane. He claimed that he was worried about the physical and emotional toll that it was taking on her, but she couldn’t help thinking that, really, he had just lost interest. It was an unfair thought, she knew, but she could tell that he didn’t feel the disappointment in the same crushing way that she did.

Now, instead of making a baby, they were building a house. Even without a baby, the one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca was feeling cramped. She and Ted had begun to bump into each other, knocking elbows as they brushed their teeth and stepping past each other awkwardly in the narrow galley kitchen. Although space was tight, they rarely fought. But when they did, she imagined that she could sense a current of resentment beneath the surface, like the rumble of the subway ten stories below their apartment. She blamed these arguments on stress, or work, or the tiny apartment, but she still felt unsettled afterward, even as they made up and promised each other that it meant nothing.

The last fight had been over whether Ted could take down one of Maja’s paintings to hang a framed Yankees jersey—a gift from his father. Every inch of wall space in the apartment was filled, and it really wasn’t an unreasonable request. But Maja had responded by wrapping all of her paintings in brown paper and putting them in their storage area in the basement of the building. They’d both apologized later, but the framed jersey still sat in the closet, the paintings remained in storage, and the walls of the apartment stayed empty. They needed to get out of the city. It was past time.