I see the three little dots indicating that my mom is typing. They disappear and reappear a few times before this message comes through:
MOM
Do you love Anders?
SUNNY
I just met him
MOM
So?
SUNNY
How I feel doesn’t matter. He actually said the words. He wants kids.
MOM
You know what I’m going to say
She has been a vocal proponent of adoption since I received the news of my infertility. I get it. If I ever happen to find someone who loves me enough to accept me as-is, that would be the only way I could have children. But I also know how costly and arduous that process can be—despite what my mom always says. It seems easier to make peace with a child-free life than to start down that path—to say nothing of the near-impossibility of finding a family man who is content with adoption. This is a circular conversation we’ve had many, many times.
SUNNY
You don’t need to say it. I know.
MOM
You need to tell him and let him choose
SUNNY
I know what he’s going to choose
MOM
I’m going to tell you something that might shatter your reality: You don’t know everything, you can’t control everything, and yet everything will be okay.
I agreed with her up until the end there. Over the past few weeks, Anders has shown me that I don’t know everything. He’s made it his mission in life to help me see that I can’t control everything. But I don’t know that everything will be okay—not with Anders and me, anyway. While I’m pondering the hopelessness of the situation, three messages come in at once.
ANDERS
You disappeared
MOM
Just tell him. Put it out there. If Anders is the man for you, it will work out. But remember to have fun. You’re on vacation. You can save the hard talk for later if you need to. This one will keep. Love you, kiddo.
ANDERS
We’re getting a late lunch. Come find us when you’re ready
I know I need to fess up to Anders that I overheard and find a way to let him down gently. I do. But maybe my mother is right and it can wait until after our weekend getaway. No need to sully the fun of tiling floors and sleeping on Anders’ bunk bed with talk of my infertility. I’ll tell him on the plane ride home or maybe Monday.
These justifications are running through my mind when I square my shoulders and walk inside, ready to party with the Abrahamsons. I hardly recognize myself. Who is this woman who is putting off until tomorrow what should be done today? It’s like Mercer has taken over my body.
I tuck my phone into the pocket of Anders’ oversized hoodie as I step into the nearly empty kitchen, feeling Imogen’s note that I had stashed there earlier this morning. The memory brings heat to my cheeks. She had written the words “Wil you mary my dad?” in her sweet, childish scrawl. My chest aches at the thought of her eager heart, so willing to love me.
