I look over at the tiny bassinet that nearly broke my knee. It’s trimmed in yellow ribbon with little pink flowers on it. Yesterday, when we still believed we were going to be parents, I had laid out a little outfit inside the bassinet. A blue onesie barely the size of my hand, paired with tiny yellow socks. I remember putting one of those little socks in my palm, marveling at how tiny it was. How could a human being have a foot tiny enough to fit into that little sock? I kissed the sock gently, knowing it would soon warm the tiny foot of my infant son.

I know it sounds silly, but I had my heart set on a newborn. I don’t feel ready to let go of my dream of holding an infant in my arms—of sliding a tiny foot into that little sock.

“We bought all newborn stuff,” I point out. “The clothes… the crib… the bassinet… the car seat.”

“So?” He rolls his head to look at me. “We can buy all new stuff. It’s just stuff, Abby.”

Yes, it’s just stuff. And it isn’t the stuff that’s made me hesitant to do this.

“Everyone wants newborns,” he says. “But the kids in the orphanages… they need parents so badly. I want to do that, Abby. I’m sick of waiting for a newborn. I just want for us to be parents to a child who needs us.”

He’s right, of course. I’ve got to let go of my stupid fantasies from my days of TTC. It also doesn’t escape me that if Sam wanted kids so badly, he could dump me for someone like April. His sperm is normal. I’m the problem.

But he’d never do that.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 4

The worst thing about going to work the next morning is seeing other people. If I could be magically transported into my office and not have to speak to anyone, I’d be much happier.

It’s a two-minute walk from the subway station to the office building, and during that time, I pass roughly five-thousand women pushing baby carriages. I don’t know what they’re all doing out and about at this early hour. I try not to look, but it’s hard not to. One of the babies can’t be more than a month or two old—she still has that fetal look to her, with her tiny eyes squeezed shut and her minuscule hands squeezed into red fists. Her hat has fallen off her head, and I want to reach over and put it back on. If it were my baby, I would never allow her hat to fall off or her little head to be cold for even an instant. I would never neglect my hat duties.

Why would the universe take my baby away from me?