Sam’s sperm knocked up my assistant on the very first try. We tried for so many years without any success. It’s not like I ever doubted that I was the one responsible for our infertility, but I’ve never seen the evidence smacking me in the face like this.

First try. Pregnant.

After a second of silent self-deprecation, the impact of the news hits me. Monica is pregnant. Which means in less than nine months, she will give birth. I’m going to be a mother. After all this time of waiting and trying and wishing, this is finally going to happen for me.

I can’t believe it.

“This is incredible!” I exclaim.

She nods happily. “I didn’t think it would happen so fast. I guess I’m really fertile, huh?”

Her words are a quick jab in the gut, but I push it aside. She’s doing this for me—she’s just excited at how quickly it all happened. “I guess so. Hey, I’m going to text Sam, okay?”

“Of course.”

I whip out my iPhone, which of course doesn’t recognize my thumbprint because my fingers are all sticky from baby food. I punch in my passcode, which is my birthday. Yes, I know—it’s not very secure. But I don’t think anyone is plotting to steal information from my phone. Half of what’s on there are text messages with my coworkers. Mostly between Shelley and me, complaining about Denise.

I type a quick text to Sam: Monica’s pregnant!

After I type the words, the iPhone suggests a pregnant lady emoji, which I add in, even though I know Sam is not a big fan of random emojis. Oh well.

“What did he say?” Monica asks, casually leaning over my desk to see the screen of my phone.

Sam’s reply comes a second later: Wonderful.

It’s hard not to imagine a touch of sarcasm in his response. Even though Sam has been on board throughout this process, he’s been noticeably reluctant the whole way. When he left to give the sperm sample, he gave me this look and said, “Here I go.” And then he waited, like he was hoping I might tell him to forget the whole thing. I didn’t.

“He said, ‘Wonderful!’” I say.

Monica beams. She doesn’t need to know I inserted the exclamation point myself.

I look down at her stomach, which is flat as a board. We agreed she’d work until she was showing, but it doesn’t look like that will happen any time soon. “How are you feeling?”

“Good!”

“Any nausea?”

“Not at all.”

“Tired?”

“Just a bit.” She holds her thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “But not too bad.”

She doesn’t look like she feels tired or nauseous. She looks… great, actually. Like she’s glowing.

“You’re taking the prenatal vitamins, right?” I ask.

She nods.