Wanting to have a baby was a desperate quality in a woman, like wanting a relationship multiplied by a thousand, and it got more desperate with age. The possibility of ending up alone was always there, in the background. My friends and I all took turns being convinced it would be reality, with varying degrees of acceptance. Being alone in New York didn’t seem so bad—exhausting, maybe, but stimulating, always something to do, someone to see. But admitting you wanted a baby—and wanted the pancakes and the maternity clothes and the chubby spawn around a table—and then not getting it because it
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