I check out my nails—perfect as always—because I won’t be next. I’m not pregnant; he’ll just continue on down the line. It’s stupid. So fucking stupid, and I don’t know why I care at all, but there’s this piece of me, a chunk of my brain, a pulse of my heart, that wants someone to think about me just that tiny bit extra, like Olivia and Rosie, just because of what’s in my uterus.
