She looked into the bathroom mirror, letting it sink in. She’d decided that she would give it one more month before she broached the idea of IVF with Ted again, and somehow she had convinced herself that this would be the month that it finally happened. She’d visualized this moment: looking into the mirror, seeing a change in her face that meant that she was going to be a mother. Calling Ted and telling him to take the day off and come home.

Instead, she looked exactly the same as she had that morning: messy blond hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob, and big gray eyes filling with tears. A face so Slavic, with its tendency toward melancholy, that old-timers in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where she grew up, would automatically speak to her in Polish, a language her parents had failed to pass on to her. The only difference she noticed today was that she looked older, or at least more tired, as she tried to blink back the tears so they wouldn’t smear her mascara.

She tossed the pregnancy test into the trash bin and gripped the sides of the sink. She wanted to rip it from the wall. She wanted to scream. Why was this so hard? She had never come up against a challenge that she couldn’t solve through hard work or creativity. But this was one problem she just couldn’t fix. The frustration of it made her feel helpless, and a childish voice inside her insisted, but I want it now!

She pressed her palms against her closed eyelids and took a deep breath. She was an adult; she was in control. She could wait another month. I trust my body, she whispered, repeating one of the fertility mantras that an upbeat acupuncturist had given her. It will happen when the time is right. She tried to ignore the other voice in her head that wanted to make the counterargument: You’re not getting any younger. It’s never going to happen.

She swallowed, and the tightness in her throat told her that she’d successfully fought back her tears. A small victory. She would call Ted right away and tell him. It would save her from having to dread the conversation all day at work. She walked out to the kitchen to look for her phone.

It was already ringing, and with her mind on calling Ted, she picked it up without looking at the screen and said, “Ted? No luck this month, I’m afraid. I guess you’ll just have to keep ravishing me.” She tried to keep her voice light, but the joke sounded strained.

There was a long pause and then: “Maja?” It was a familiar voice, but not Ted’s. “This is John.”