Thus began three years of acupuncturist visits, funky herbs, hormone injections, expensive in vitro treatments, and tears. Endless tears. I was the problem. Tests confirmed that Brian’s sperm were swift and healthy, but I had a hostile vagina. That’s the term my (male) doctor used to describe the bacteria in my cervical mucus that was attacking Brian’s sperm. My husband’s healthy, well-intentioned swimmers were being murdered by the evil guardians of my barren womb. I envisioned a horror-movie scenario where stalwart explorers were taken out by a giant vulva with snapping shark teeth. It was a wonder Brian could bear to touch me.

Eventually, we decided to adopt. We didn’t need a biological connection to love a child and make it ours. After diligent research, we found a reputable agency to help facilitate an identified adoption. This meant that a birth mother would select us. Brian was uncomfortable with some of the tactics the agency recommended. In addition to posting a “sparkling” profile on their site, they suggested we create our own website and Facebook page, sharing photos of our home, our travels, our pets, and our hobbies.

“I feel like we’re trying to sell our apartment or our car. But we’re selling ourselves,” he said.

“There are a lot more people who want to be parents than there are babies,” I countered. “We need a pregnant mom to choose us over everyone else.” So we smiled for the camera; we poured our hearts out on video; we showed off our tidy home, our outdoorsy lifestyle, our devotion to each other. (I wanted to adopt a rescue dog, but Brian’s allergies precluded it.)

And it worked! We were chosen! A seventeen-year-old girl named Mia selected us. She had wide-set eyes, a bow of a mouth, and long dark hair. She lived in a suburb of Chicago, was five months along when we were introduced via Skype. Her bump was clearly visible, we were meeting our baby, too.

I liked her. Mia was cute and bubbly and bright. We messaged often, Skyped once a week. She sent us her twenty-two-week ultrasound photo on time, our baby the size of a small banana.

“It’s a girl,” Mia told us, and Brian and I burst into happy tears.

My chats with Mia went beyond the pregnancy. She told me about the baby’s father, a cute, sporty boy whom she had thought she loved, until she realized he was selfish and immature. There was drama in her friend group, some related to her condition, some typical mean-girl stuff. Her parents were supportive, she said, but they didn’t want to engage with Brian and me. It was hard for them to give away their grandchild, but they knew it was for the best.

“It might make them feel better if they spoke to us,” I suggested.

“One day,” she assured me.

Mia said the things I needed to hear. “My baby is so lucky to have parents like you.” And “One day, I’ll be a great mom, too. I’m just not ready yet.” I felt altruistic. We were giving a baby a loving home; we were giving her mother a chance to grow up.