Chapter 1
Phoebe
“I’m about to do something stupid,” I say, gripping the stem of my wine glass like it’s the only thing tethering me to the planet.
Olive doesn’t even blink. She just stares at me from across the kitchen island, suspicious as hell, her eyebrows doing that thing where they form a perfect line of judgment. “And I need you, as my best friend, to talk me out of it,” I add.
She sets her cup down slowly. “How stupid are we talking?”
I shrug. “Smart enough to Google the process, dumb enough to do it while tipsy.”
That gets her attention. She leans forward. “What the hell are you planning, Phoebe?”
I inhale. I’ve been rehearsing this moment all week, so it should be easy right?
“I want to have a baby,” I say.
Silence.
“Artificially. Obviously,” I add, when Olive’s mouth starts to open in protest. “Like, no sex. No romance. Just one sterile vial and a whole lot of wishful thinking.”
Olive blinks. “You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not drunk enough to forget I’ve got five frozen tabs open labeled ‘cryobank success stories’ and a cart full of potential fathers with strong jawlines and suspiciously vague SAT scores.”
She gapes at me. “Oh my god! You're serious!”
I shrug.
This is usually the part where someone would laugh. But Olive’s still staring at me like I’ve started speaking fluent Tazmanian.
I sigh and set down my glass. “Look. You know how I grew up. Divorced parents. Step-dads like revolving doors. Mom’s favorite coping mechanism was white wine and a new last name every Christmas. I don’t want that.”
“What do you want?”
I pause. “Something that’s mine. A family I build from scratch. No messy divorces. No fighting over custody or who gets the good blender. Just... me. And a baby— my baby,” I clarified.
“And a no-name sperm donor.”
“Preferably with a master’s degree and no history of mass murder,” I say.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Phoebe. This is insane.”
“Insane would be dating another man who pretends not to know what feminism means while telling me he’s ‘totally supportive of women in STEM.’”
“So this is about your last date.”
“No, this is about every date. And every time I’ve had to choose between someone else’s dream and my own. I’m done waiting for the ‘right time’ or the ‘right guy.’ My ovaries don’t care about timing. They care about delivery options.”
Another long silence.
Then Olive groans, rubs her eyes, and mutters, “Jesus Christ. You’ve really thought this through.”
I nod solemnly. “And I’ve already named him.”
“Oh god.”
“Cletus.”
Olive’s glare could sear paint off a car. “If you name your baby Cletus, you will no longer have a friend. In fact, I’ll petition for custody just to protect him from that name.”
I grin, sipping my wine like I didn’t just drop a social nuke. “You’re already getting protective. That’s a good sign.”
“Phoebe.”
“Olive.”
“This isn’t like adopting a goldfish. This is a human child. Who’ll one day ask where his dad is. Or worse, why his name sounds like a bad sex toy.”
“Fine,” I concede, setting my glass down with a clink. “Cletus is off the table.”
“Thank god.”
“But the sperm isn’t.”
Her eyes narrow again. “You’re serious. You’re actually going to do this?”
I nod, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest—not fear, not quite excitement either. Something bigger. Something real. “I’ve spent years waiting for life to line up. Career first. Then love. Then maybe a kid if I hadn’t lost my mind by forty. But guess what? Love never showed up. And I’m not interested in wasting another decade on apps where men think ‘5′11 but 6′1 in heels’ is a personality trait.”
“Jesus.”
“I’ve worked my ass off,” I continue, warming up now. “Team lead at thirty. Renewable energy patents under my name. I’ve built things, Olive. Good things. But I always thought the family part would just... show up. That I’d trip over some hot environmentalist at a conference and we’d bond over compost. That hasn’t happened. So I’m done waiting.”
Olive stares at me, then leans back with a sigh. “You know I love you, right?”
“I do.”
“And you know I will support you no matter what, even if you do something utterly bonkers like picking a donor based on his high school debate trophies?”
“Those were optional fields, but yes.”
She rubs her temples. “I just... it feels fast.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for two years.”
“That’s... actually not fast. Wow.”
I nod. "Yeah. It wasn't as rash of a decision as you think."
“You’ve done research?”
“Spreadsheets. Charts. One terrifying Reddit forum with a woman named ‘WombWarrior87’ who made me cry and laugh in the same thread.”
Olive shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”
“I prefer ‘high-functioning visionary.’”
She pauses. Then: “What if it’s hard? What if it doesn’t work? Or what if it does, and you’re alone and exhausted and wondering why the hell you thought this was a good idea?”
I smile—small, tired, but honest. “Then I’ll remind myself that I chose this”. And that for once, it wasn’t about settling or waiting or hoping someone else would love me enough to give me what I wanted. It was about loving myself enough to go after it anyway.
For a moment, she’s quiet. Then she sighs again, softer this time, and slides her wine glass closer.
“Well,” she mutters, “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve always wanted to be an auntie.”
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “You’re not getting naming rights.”
“No. But I amvetoing anything that sounds like it belongs in an underwear ad.”
“Fair.”
_____________________________________________
There is a strange kind of vulnerability that comes with having a stranger’s head parked between your thighs while they narrate the inner workings of your uterus like it’s a weather report.
“Remarkably healthy cervix,” Dr. Feldman says, peering through his little flashlight tool like he’s inspecting a cave system. “And those ovaries? Lush. Plump. Very fertile.”
I stare at the ceiling tile above me, which is cracked, like this moment deserves a metaphor. “Thanks,” I say faintly. “I moisturize.”
“Mm-hmm. Endometrial lining’s textbook. You’re built for childbearing.”
I blink. Not because I’m surprised, but because I can’t tell if I’ve just been medically complimented or casually insulted.Built for childbearing? What am I, a rustic milkmaid from the 1800s? Should I start churning butter and preparing to die in childbirth?
“...I’ll take that as a compliment,” I murmur.
Dr. Feldman—blessedly—removes his head from the southern hemisphere of my body and straightens up, snapping off his gloves with a loudsmack.
“Well, you’re a good candidate. Very low concern for complications. If your hormone levels come back as expected, we’re green-lit for insemination next cycle.”
I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Like, full dramatic sigh. The kind of sigh that deserves a fainting couch and an opera swell.
Because the truth is, Iwasscared. Scared my body might not be as cooperative as my spreadsheets. That years of stress and poor sleep and microwave burritos had conspired to sabotage the dream I barely dared to name out loud.
But here I am. Not broken. Not cursed.Capable.
I sit up on the crinkly paper, the back of my gown flapping like a sad little curtain, and try to make my voice sound confident. “So, next steps?”
“We monitor your ovulation. You’ll come back in about four days once we confirm your LH surge. That’s when the real fun begins.”
He saysfunlike we’re talking about laser tag and not shooting anonymous sperm through a catheter into my uterus.
“Great,” I say, yanking my leggings back up with the dead-eyed efficiency of a woman who’s been emotionally undressed before the physical part even began. “Four days. Got it.”
Dr. Feldman hands me a printout, some pamphlets, and a sticky note with the wordDonor #48271written on it.
“You picked a good one,” he says, smiling like we’re talking about wine, not genetic material.
“He has a strong chin,” I reply dryly. “And a Masters in bioengineering, so I figured we’d at least have something to talk about, genetically speaking.”
He chuckles, clearly not paid enough to untangle the existential weirdness of this whole situation.
I leave the clinic twenty minutes later, clutching a small packet of papers and the nauseating realization that I’m really doing this. Like, not just talking about it while drinking wine and joking about baby names with Olive. I am officially on the path to creating life. Without a partner. Without a plan B. Just me, my overpriced health insurance, and Donor #48271—who, for the record, enjoys hiking, playing the piano, and being faceless.
I sit in my car and stare at the dash.
Am I out of my mind?Probably.
But then I think of all the nights I used to fall asleep imagining what a quiet house filled with laughter might sound like. What it would be like to belong to something no one could take away. What it might mean to be chosen by myself, for once.
Maybe Iamout of my mind.But maybe that’s exactly where I needed to go to finally find what I’ve been missing.
I check the calendar on my phone. Four days.
The countdown begins.
