“Get away. Get away from me.” In a moment he was out the door.

May 18: six days left.

Natalie arrived at my apartment in blue jeans and a thin almost transparent T-shirt that highlighted her skinniness. It said Normal people scare me. It was an indication of low self-esteem. She wore high-heeled wedge sandals. It was essentially the same outfit she’d worn the previous day and the day before that. She was pushing the envelope in her sophistication and maturity and had turned up the volume abruptly. But her personality was still vulnerable.

I consciously chose not to discuss my potential pregnancy, unless Natalie brought it up—though not a minute passed that I wasn’t thinking about it, analyzing every physical sensation in my body, every twinge, every cramp, hoping for clues. I’d been having little conversations with the baby, alone in my apartment, and I believed the baby heard me.

Natalie pulled her Sony out of the camera bag. She turned it over, setting and resetting the dials. “In seventh grade, photography’s one of the electives at my school.”

I detected a hint of enthusiasm, which was unusual for her these days.

“I’ll definitely take photography when I’m in seventh grade.”

“What kind of photography subjects interest you the most?”

“People.”

In the background, we could hear the peaceful hum of the dryer. I’d never had laundry in my own apartment before.

“There are all the pictures where someone says ‘smile’ and everyone smiles,” Natalie said. “But I want to take pictures of people acting like they really act. When they’re sad or angry or scared. Sometimes I look at my mom and I want to take a picture of what she looks like when she’s not performing. She’s performing most of the time.”

Natalie was looking to unmask. It was dangerous to take a photo of someone without their permission, with the intention of catching them unaware and exposing something inside them that they never intended to show to the public. Natalie didn’t seem to care.

Later that day I received a text from Ian: Tell Amelia and Fritz the truth.

I wrote back: give me time.

May 24: The implantation failed as a result of poor embryo quality. When I learned the news, I felt a heavy weight bearing down on top of me, almost as though I might have trouble staying aboveground. It was Amelia’s failure. Not mine. It had nothing to do with my uterus. I was angry with Amelia. But, even so, I worried that she would find a way to blame me.

So I was surprised at her reaction to the news. “Delta, darling, please, please, please … Please try again. I know we can do this.” She shone all her light on me.

There was no recrimination. No criticism.

“Of course, Amelia.”

“I love you,” she said.