“Ugh, why is Greg Butkis here? Did Mom invite him for you?” I look over. Leah, my sister, has walked over and perched on the arm of the couch next to me. She’s in a cute sparkly dress and has her hair in a high ponytail. She’s my older sister by six years, but even with the gap we’ve always been close.
She rolls her eyes. “Eff it, Gemma. Eff all men. They’re terrible mother effers, be happy you’re single.”
I look over at Leah. She used to swear like a sailor, but ever since she had kids she says things like “eff it” and “fudge” and “son of a biscuit.”
She takes a long gulp of wine until the entire glass is empty. Then she wipes her mouth and says, “Eff it.”
“What happened?” I ask. My sister usually has the ability to manage her four kids, her husband, and her job, like a circus master juggling monkeys—it looks insane, but she manages it with mad skill.
Her lower lip quivers and she shakes her head and blinks her eyes quickly, like she’s trying not to cry.
“Leah, what?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. Just life. Being a mom of four kids is great, don’t get me wrong, but cherish your single days, Gem. Revel in your bachelorette-hood. Cheese and rice, some days I envy you.” She looks down at her wine glass and seems surprised to find it empty.
“Umm, okay. Here,” I say. I hand her my glass.
She sets her empty glass on the coffee table and accepts mine. Then she takes a long swallow of the white wine.
“You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine,” Leah says.
Colin and Sasha skip up in front of us and Leah visibly pulls herself together.
“Hey sweethearts,” she says.
“Here you go, Mommy. Auntie Gemma.” Sasha says. Colin hands us pencils and paper slips.
“Thanks, kiddos,” I say.
They skip off.
Because Leah looks so sad, I reach over and put my arms around her. It’s awkward because she’s holding the glass of wine, but I manage.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” Then I give her one of my favorite Ian quotes, “Everything in life happens for a reason, and it’s always a good reason.”
She gives me a sardonic look, then says, “Someday, Gemma, I think you’re going to find that bull crap quotes can’t make everything better.”
I look at her in shock. “Seriously, are you okay?”
She twirls the wine glass in her hand. “I’m fine. It’s just I know you believe there’s always a bright side, but I don’t think that’s true.”
“Of course it is,” I say automatically. “Of course there’s always a bright side.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.” Then she glances across the room at her kids, laughing and bringing around the bowl for everyone to drop their New Year’s resolutions into.
She draws in a deep breath. “Let’s write our resolutions, shall we? I’m going to take dance lessons. Alone time with Oliver. Romance.”
“Alright,” I say, and I don’t push our conversation further. Leah still looks a little upset, but she’s always been direct, and if something was truly wrong she’d tell me.
I kneel at the table and hold my pencil over the scrap of paper. I tap the eraser against the sheet and think about what to write.
When I came here today it was my goal to convince Josh to be the donor for my baby. That failed. I failed. But that doesn’t mean I have to give up on my dream.
I can ask him again. Make a top-level presentation on why it would be a great thing for him to be a donor.
Or I can still, you know, ask someone else, or consider the donor database. And, really, what’s so bad about an anonymous donor? Nothing. It’s a great option.
There are no messy emotions with anonymity.
I’ll find some brainiac type that looks like Thor or something. Or maybe an athletic type that volunteers as a mentor or builds houses for people after natural disasters. Or maybe a guy who has grandparents that lived to be a hundred and five. The options are endless.
As my latest Ian social media post said, the only limitations we have are the ones we place on ourselves. I included a gif of a sugar glider—because…flying squirrels. A few celebs shared the post, so I know it was a good one.
I’m not going to give up.
I look over at my sister. Her brow is wrinkled and she’s scrawling on her paper. She presses so hard a little bit of the paper tears.
I pretend not to notice and look back at my paper.
In small, precise letters I write out my resolution and make myself a promise.