When I walk into the office, the entire room goes deathly silent. If there were music playing, it would have come to a screeching halt. All eyes are on me as I attempt to sprint to my office. It’s enough to make me wish I had taken that personal day after all.

I’ve almost made it to safety when I practically collide with Shelley. She’s standing with two other women from the office. I’ve attended baby showers for all three of them within the last five years, none of which ended abruptly in tragedy.

“Are you okay, Abby?” Shelley asks me.

“Fine.” I force a smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

And I mean it. Well, I’m partially fine. Sam and I contacted the social worker at the agency last night and we told them we wanted to broaden our options for adoption. Sam figured there was no point in sitting around, feeling sorry for ourselves—we’d feel better if we got started on the process of finding another child to adopt. While he was saying it, it sounded stupid, but it turned out he was right.

Not that I feel all better, but that stabbing pain in my heart feels more like a dull ache.

Even so, Shelley hugs me, as do the other two women, even though I barely know either of them.

“You’re going to get your baby someday,” Shelley promises me.

I avoid her eyes. I’m not in the mood for patronizing pep talks. “Yep.”

“Honestly, you should consider yourself lucky,” a woman named Jan says to me. “Kids are nothing but work. I mean, right now, you can go out to dinner any time you want and you don’t even have to think about getting a babysitter.”

“And you never sleep when you have a baby,” the other woman, Sidney, says. “You walk around for a year feeling like a zombie. Actually, make that five years!”

“Make that eighteen!” Jan laughs.

Sidney winks at me. “You can have my kids if you want them, Abby.”

I look at Shelley, who can tell how much these comments are getting to me. God knows how long these well-meaning women would have kept me there, telling me how fortunate I am to have the adoption yanked out from under me, if Denise Holt herself hadn’t shown up. The heels of her Christian Louboutin pumps tap loudly against the ground with each step.

Denise Holt walks right up to us, not a trace of sympathy in her blue eyes. I wonder if she’s glad the adoption fell through for me. But in a way, I’m grateful for her stony gaze. At least one person is treating me the same as always.