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I
don
’
t
want
to
be
married
anymore
.
I
was
trying
so
hard
not
to
know
this
,
but
the
truth
kept
insisting
itself
to
me
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
married
anymore
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
live
in
this
big
house
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
have
a
baby
.
But
I
was
supposed
to
want
to
have
a
baby
.
I
was
thirty
-
one
years
old
.
My
husband
and
I
-
who
had
been
together
for
eight
years
,
married
for
six
-
had
built
our
entire
life
around
the
common
expectation
that
,
after
passing
the
doddering
old
age
of
thirty
,
I
would
want
to
settle
down
and
have
children
.
By
then
,
we
mutually
anticipated
,
I
would
have
grown
weary
of
traveling
and
would
be
happy
to
live
in
a
big
,
busy
household
full
of
children
and
homemade
quilts
,
with
a
garden
in
the
backyard
and
a
cozy
stew
bubbling
on
the
stovetop
.
(
The
fact
that
this
was
a
fairly
accurate
portrait
of
my
own
mother
is
a
quick
indicator
of
how
difficult
it
once
was
for
me
to
tell
the
difference
between
myself
and
the
powerful
woman
who
had
raised
me
.
)
But
I
didn
’
t
-
as
I
was
appalled
to
be
finding
out
-
want
any
of
these
things
.
Instead
,
as
my
twenties
had
come
to
a
close
,
that
deadline
of
THIRTY
had
loomed
over
me
like
a
death
sentence
,
and
I
discovered
that
I
did
not
want
to
be
pregnant
.
I
kept
waiting
to
want
to
have
a
baby
,
but
it
didn
’
t
happen
.
And
I
know
what
it
feels
like
to
want
something
,
believe
me
.
I
well
know
what
desire
feels
like
.
But
it
wasn
’
t
there
.
Moreover
,
I
couldn
’
t
stop
thinking
about
what
my
sister
had
said
to
me
once
,
as
she
was
breastfeeding
her
firstborn
:
"
Having
a
baby
is
like
getting
a
tattoo
on
your
face
.
You
really
need
to
be
certain
it
’
s
what
you
want
before
you
commit
.
"
How
could
I
turn
back
now
,
though
?
Everything
was
in
place
.
This
was
supposed
to
be
the
year
.
In
fact
,
we
’
d
been
trying
to
get
pregnant
for
a
few
months
already
.
But
nothing
had
happened
(
aside
from
the
fact
that
-
in
an
almost
sarcastic
mockery
of
pregnancy
-
I
was
experiencing
psychosomatic
morning
sickness
,
nervously
throwing
up
my
breakfast
every
day
)
.
And
every
month
when
I
got
my
period
I
would
find
myself
whispering
furtively
in
the
bathroom
:
Thank
you
,
thank
you
,
thank
you
,
thank
you
for
giving
me
one
more
month
to
live
…
I
’
d
been
attempting
to
convince
myself
that
this
was
normal
.
All
women
must
feel
this
way
when
they
’
re
trying
to
get
pregnant
,
I
’
d
decided
.
(
"
Ambivalent
"
was
the
word
I
used
,
avoiding
the
much
more
accurate
description
:
"
utterly
consumed
with
dread
.
"
)
I
was
trying
to
convince
myself
that
my
feelings
were
customary
,
despite
all
evidence
to
the
contrary
-
such
as
the
acquaintance
I
’
d
run
into
last
week
who
’
d
just
discovered
that
she
was
pregnant
for
the
first
time
,
after
spending
two
years
and
a
king
’
s
ransom
in
fertility
treatments
.
She
was
ecstatic
.
She
had
wanted
to
be
a
mother
forever
,
she
told
me
.
She
admitted
she
’
d
been
secretly
buying
baby
clothes
for
years
and
hiding
them
under
the
bed
,
where
her
husband
wouldn
’
t
find
them
.
I
saw
the
joy
in
her
face
and
I
recognized
it
.
This
was
the
exact
joy
my
own
face
had
radiated
last
spring
,
the
day
I
discovered
that
the
magazine
I
worked
for
was
going
to
send
me
on
assignment
to
New
Zealand
,
to
write
an
article
about
the
search
for
giant
squid
.
And
I
thought
,
"
Until
I
can
feel
as
ecstatic
about
having
a
baby
as
I
felt
about
going
to
New
Zealand
to
search
for
a
giant
squid
,
I
cannot
have
a
baby
.
"
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
married
anymore
.
In
daylight
hours
,
I
refused
that
thought
,
but
at
night
it
would
consume
me
.
What
a
catastrophe
.
How
could
I
be
such
a
criminal
jerk
as
to
proceed
this
deep
into
a
marriage
,
only
to
leave
it
?
We
’
d
only
just
bought
this
house
a
year
ago
.
