“You’ve used that word so many times, it’s stopped having any meaning,” Peter says kindly, topping up her glass.
“I read an article in a Norwegian newspaper that said that children have personal development classes at school to encourage them to ‘prioritize romantic commitment and parenthood.’ They’ve been showing them old Disney movies. Some of the parents are outraged.”
“I’m not surprised,” Libby replies hotly. Even though I understand the logic behind the classes, I can’t muster the will to disagree with her. The idea of Theodore having been sat down by a teacher and taught how he should think about his future and relationships makes me feel a bit nauseous.
“How are they encouraging adults to have children?” Peter asks.
“Oh, the usual. Eighteen months of maternity leave on full pay, eighty percent funded by government. Free full-time childcare after that. And financial bonuses that amount to about ten grand.”
“Is that just for straight couples?”
The intensity in Peter’s gaze reminds me that Peter is in a uniquely difficult position compared to Libby and me. His husband died in January 2026, when they had been planning to fly to the US to give their sperm for a surrogate they had found.
“No, it applies to everyone. Straight and gay couples, and women who have a baby alone.”
Peter almost groans in envy. “Although, I’d need a husband first,” he says, with a trace of flinty bitterness in his voice that I recognize well from my own tone. “Being a micro-minority is no fun, I can tell you. Everything I used to do to meet men back when I was single is impossible. Gay clubs? Not enough of us. Apps? I swipe fourteen times and then I’m out of men. I’m seriously considering extending my radius to include Birmingham.”
Libby puts a protective hand on his arm.
“I’ve been thinking about applying to have a baby,” I say quietly.
“Do you think it’ll make it better?” Peter asks, and from someone else it might sound like a challenge but from his mouth it’s more like a plea. Do you think a baby will make the pain, finally, lessen?
“I really, really hope so,” I say. “Even thinking about it gives the future focus. It makes me hopeful.”
“You have to try,” Peter says urgently. “If I could get pregnant . . . what I wouldn’t give. You can try, you have to. All I can do is donate sperm.” He looks down at his drink, pain radiating off him in waves. “No one wants to be a surrogate for a single man. Not now. I can’t say I blame them. It’s one thing to carry a baby for someone else when life is normal but when sperm is like gold dust.” He shakes his head. “I’m too worried to agree to have a baby with someone I don’t know well. ‘Co-parenting.’ What if they leave and never actually wanted me to be involved?” He pauses and looks at me carefully. I know what he’s thinking—could we do this together? One man, one woman, making a baby and co-parenting as friends? He won’t ask because he’s too polite, and I can’t offer. I only want a baby on my own. I can’t bear to see a man who isn’t Anthony parent my child. I can’t.
I think about the pictures of women in the Norwegian article. Women who were like me with circumstances so similar—widowed, having lost children—that it felt like I could slip out of my skin, enter the photo and their pregnancies, babies, would be mine. The desire for another baby, which has been humming under my skin on and off ever since Theodore turned one and with ferocity since the Plague hurtled into my life, has gained yet more intensity. If they can do it, why can’t I? It’s so much easier to ignore my desires when I can’t see them coming true. The Norwegian pregnant women are my own version of a Disney ending: no prince, no happy ending, but a recovery. A return to motherhood. A return to part of my old life.
As Libby talks to Peter about their mum’s latest drama, trying to distract him from everything, I think about Phoebe. She was my closest confidant through the tribulations of our conception battles. I know that she’s the person I need to see most but I don’t know if I can do it. I miss her desperately. I miss my friend, but the bitterness at all she has is still just below the surface of my skin. On a near-daily basis I tell myself I should be better than this bitterness. I should be better than jealousy. I should just be better. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by how tiring the emotional back-and-forth is and by the guilt I feel. I decide to reach out and ask her to meet me before I can talk myself out of it.