And then it all came out. The months of crushing disappointment, the costly and uncomfortable treatments, the humiliating and painful adoption scam. I knew everything about Freya’s fall from social media grace, the bullying and abuse, the trial and the civil lawsuit, but I hadn’t wanted our friendship to be tainted by my sad backstory. And yet, the words flowed out of me like a burst dam. Somewhere in the middle of my monologue, our salads arrived, but they sat untouched. Freya didn’t pick up her fork. She let me talk about my desperate, unfulfilled need for a child, our greens wilting before us.

“Brian says we can be happy without a baby,” I finished. “I promised to try but . . . I just don’t know if I can be.” Tears leaked from my eyes.

“I know. It’s hard.” Freya patted my hand. “Society expects women of a certain age to become mothers. If you’re not, everyone thinks there’s something wrong with you.”

I nodded.

“When people learn I don’t want kids, they think I have some mental or emotional defect. They feel sorry for Max. He doesn’t care if he has kids, but they just think the cold bitch he married won’t give him any. I’ve stopped talking to his mother. And I’ve had to drop all my friends who’ve become moms because they’re so annoying.”

“People come right out and ask, don’t they?” I inserted. “Why don’t you have kids?”

“Like it’s any of their fucking business.” Freya picked up her fork then. “I’m tired of being treated like I’m less of a woman because I’m not a mom.”

I watched her stab a cherry tomato, pop it in her mouth, and chew aggressively. Freya understood. We had completely opposite desires—I yearned for a child, and she disdained the idea of having one—but we had one thing in common: we were both made to feel incomplete.

“Let’s do something fun,” she said, “something only we unfruitful women can do.”

I tucked into my salad. “Like what?”

“Come over tonight, you and Brian. We’ll get drunk.” She lowered her voice. “We’ll take Molly.”

“Molly?”

“MDMA. The love drug. The four of us will have a blast on that shit.”

“No,” I said, “no chemicals.” Coming from Vancouver, the fentanyl crisis was top of mind for me. Street drugs were being cut with the potent synthetic opioid, and people were dying. The lethal drug did not discern between addicts and dabblers.

“’Shrooms, then. Completely natural.”

“Where would you even get them?”

“Low’s a teenager. She’ll know someone who can hook us up.”

“I can’t buy magic mushrooms from my shop assistant!”

“I’ll buy them. I won’t tell her you’re involved.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“We’ll put on some music and dance and laugh.” She took a sip of iced tea. “It’ll be cool. It’ll be mind-expanding.”

I wanted to be Freya’s fun, wild, adventurous friend, but I had a bad track record with the persona. In college, I’d tried ’shrooms, pot, even ecstasy once. My dabbling inevitably ended in paranoia, vomiting, and/or diarrhea. I might have had the will, but I didn’t have the constitution to be wild and adventurous. But for Freya . . . maybe I could try?