There are many analogies about the end of fertility, none of them good. They involve clocks grinding to a halt, or flowers withering, or reaching for an egg carton and finding out they’re all gone, or maybe there’s one egg left, but it’s a little weird looking, and the shell is all rippled and strange and it’s probably from some sort of lizard), I am hesitant to say those words: that I don’t want to be a mother.
