I can’t believe people feed this crap to helpless infants. Well, the apple and pear were okay. Tolerable. The peach cobbler sounded good, but tasted too sweet. The sweet potato made me gag, but I successfully got down a bite of it. But the autumn vegetable turkey… I don’t use the word “sickening” too often, but wow. That could have been the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.

Oh, and I learned one other important thing about baby food:

It’s a very powerful laxative.

And I didn’t even try the prune baby food.

Maybe there’s a slogan in there somewhere. Cuddles Baby Food—as good for the bowels as it is for the soul.

Maybe not.

A fist raps on the door to my office. Monica is standing at the doorway, in her modest outfit of black slacks and a crisp white blouse buttoned up to her throat. She smiles when she sees me.

One month ago, we finalized our contract for Monica to serve as our surrogate. Sam spent forever going through it with our lawyer, and the terms are very strict. We will pay for Monica’s entire graduate school tuition, but she gives up all rights to the baby at the moment of conception. There is no option for her to change her mind at any point after that. I worried the terms might scare her, but it didn’t. She signed with a flourish.

Then a few weeks ago, Sam went to the doctor’s office and gave a sample of his sperm. Since I know Monica so well, we certainly didn’t have to go through the doctor—we could have gotten a sample on our own and given it to her. But he insisted on doing it this way.

And now… we’re waiting. Obviously, this is only our first try so the chances of pregnancy aren’t huge, but I’m still excited. If it doesn’t work this month, then it will next month or the month after that. Monica is only twenty-three and her doctor declared her to be in excellent health, so there’s no reason this shouldn’t work.

“Have you ever tried baby food?” I ask Monica.

She makes a face. “No, should I have?”

“No. You definitely shouldn’t.” I notice Monica is clutching her purse under her arm. “Is everything okay?”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “sort of.”

“Sort of?”

She reaches her hand into her purse and digs around a bit. When she pulls her hand back out, she’s holding a white plastic stick in a clear Ziploc bag. She lies it down on my desk so I can see it clearly.

There are two blue lines on the stick.

“You’re pregnant?” I breathe.

Monica nods, her eyes shining. “There are no false positives.”

Monica’s pregnant.