Yet despite the delight I took in my sister’s sons, the way my stomach lurched whenever yet another pal with that telltale glow would say, breathlessly, I have news! I did nothing about my childless state. Instead, I continued to wait for a man who would make me feel cared for before I started caring for anyone else. At times, I wondered if I was simply selfish, unwilling to give up my freedom, my travels, or even the ability to stay late at the office to nail a tough deadline. Maybe, as nurturing as I seemed, I lacked some essential motherhood gene, or the right level of estrogen. Because certainly, most of my friends seemed clear enough about wanting kids. Many, having waited to marry, like I was waiting, were starting to take drastic measures on the reproductive front. One adopted a daughter with her husband at 47; a few friends resorted to donor eggs. Some just ended up getting lucky, becoming pregnant relatively easily long past their peak fertility. Those burgeoning 40-something bellies were the most painful for me to see, evidence that it was possible to get pregnant just under the wire. I gamely threw these friends baby showers but inside, I anticipated the loss of another friend no longer available to grab a glass of wine at a moment’s notice. I also mourned the bigger loss, of the experience of pregnancy, of being a mother, choices I hadn’t definitively made but that I seemed to be choosing all the same.