In the time I have worked at Stewart Advertising, I have made an appearance at roughly two million baby showers. Okay, that could be a slight exaggeration. It’s possible I’ve only been to one million baby showers. Maybe three-quarters of a million. Definitely no less than half a million.

But now, for the first time, the shower is for me. Not for Elsa in reception, who has had at least a dozen children in her time working here. Not for Shelley, who has had a more respectable two. This shower is for me. The finger sandwiches that will be piled in the corner will have been brought in my honor. The presents stacked neatly in the corner of the room will be for me. The first piece of chocolate hazelnut cake will be handed to me.

There’s only one thing different about this baby shower from all other baby showers thrown for the other women in my company:

I’m not pregnant.

Chapter 2

“Here’s your bottle, Abby.”

Shelley is thrusting a baby bottle into my hand. It’s filled with… well, it’s not milk. Something amber-colored. “We’re going to start in another minute.”

I hold up the bottle to the light. “What’s in it?”

“Apple juice,” Shelley says, but then she winks, which makes me worry.

“I’m not drinking whiskey at work, Shelley,” I hiss at her.

“It’s apple juice.”

We’ve played this game… well, at least half a million times. Everyone gets a bottle of liquid, and we all chug it through the nipples. Whoever finishes first is the winner. It’s just one of several inane baby shower games we’ve devised and perfected over the years.

Back when I first started working at Stewart, I thought the games were a real hoot. Somewhere between my third and tenth negative pregnancy test, they stopped being so much fun. Around the twentieth negative test, it became a form of torture. When I saw those big, swollen bellies, I wanted to hide in a bathroom stall and sob, not celebrate by making little Franken-babies out of magazine clippings. Usually I stayed around five minutes before excusing myself due to my heavy workload—it was true that I had a ton of work, but it wasn’t the main reason I raced out of the room like it was on fire.

But today, I’m enjoying myself. Because after years of heartbreak, I am on the brink of motherhood. In about three weeks, I’m going to become the proud parent of a newborn boy, whose sixteen-year-old birth mother is currently living in Tucson, Arizona. I told Shelley I wasn’t sure if an adoption warranted a baby shower, but she was insistent I get the same treatment as all the ladies with the big bellies.