Page 158 of The Difference Between

“Well.” She sighs. “Combined with these other markers”—she points to said markers—“it means you have a less-than-ideal number of viable eggs left. And this number—she points to a 3 mm—“shows your endometrial thickness is low, which severely reduces implantation chances.”

Severely?

“So we just need more sperm?” I ask, summoning relief. “Because I was waiting to tell you this, but I know a donor—who’s not a donor—” I grin. “And happy to oblige.”

Her smile is here then gone. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work like that. One of these markers being off wouldn’t be problematic, but the AMH combined with the elevated FSH and the endometrial thinning . . . it changes things.” She pauses. “An IUI like we discussed would likely be unsuccessful and is no longer recommended.”

“I don’t understand.” Because I don’t. She can’t tell me I can’t have an IUI—that’s my job. To tell her that not only do I not want stranger sperm or a procedure, but I’m having my own baby. “What do you mean no longer recommended?”

She clears her throat. “It means that these results combined with your age are indicative of diminished ovarian reserve—DOR you might hear it called—and we won’t do the procedure at this point.”

The room tilts.

“Um.” I exhale. “What?”

“This isn’t a reflection of you, Reese,” she offers. “It’s nothing you’ve done. It—” She sighs and there’s that sympathetic smile I’d love to filet off her face. “These things happen as we get older and there’s no one set timeline for it.”

“I see.” I keep my voice level. “And what chance do I have to naturally conceive?”

“It’s not that easy to⁠—”

“I said—” I carefully articulate my next words, so I know she hears me. “What chance do I have to naturally conceive a baby, Dr. Cantor?”

She looks from me to her computer then back to me. “If you woul⁠—”

“Say it.”

She sighs.

Then does.

“It’s hard to give an exact number,” she says, “but I’d say based on these tests alone—” She blows out a breath. “Less than one percent.”

I know odds—I play them every day—and I know less than one percent coming from a doctor are terrible fucking odds. At the doctor notes, I nearly collapse: severely diminished ovarian reserve, age further reduces expected egg quality, per-cycle chances of pregnancy low, endometrial thinning suboptimal for implantation.

“What about medication?”

“For an IUI?” She gives me a grim look. “Not with these numbers.”

And then I read the rest: IVF with donor eggs recommended for highest likelihood of conception if endometrial thickness improves.

“Donor eggs?” I’m going to be sick. “What about my eggs?”

“The data suggests with these numbers that the likelihood of retrieving any viable eggs is low.” She keeps talking—citing studies and statistics I don’t like and the ways IVF is my best chance even though that chance is pretty fucking slim—but I’m gone. Out of my body and this room, homesick for a life I never got to live. I can’t have a baby of my own. Nobody will ever look like me or have my laugh. Nobody will ever be all mine. Or Gavin’s, if he stays with me. “The egg donor process,” Dr. Cantor says, “is very similar to what you just did with the sperm donors, should you want to go that route.”

“I don’t want an egg donor.” This can’t be happening. “I want my eggs. Mine.”

The phone dings again. You know a baby owl in the rain is called a moist owlette?

Dr. Cantor sighs. “IVF with a donor egg is your best possible chance if endometrial thickening therapy is successful.”

“If?” I take one breath, then another. “And what if it isn’t?”

Dr. Cantor eyes the paper and sighs a sound I know means devastation. “We won’t transfer an embryo with a measurement below six millimeters.” Her gaze flicks to the computer. “But there’s always the option of using a surrogate.”

The word surrogate knocks any remaining breath out of me.

“You’re telling me the difference between me being able to have a baby or not is three millimeters?” In my pause, she doesn’t answer. “No.” I flick the paper across the desk. “I didn’t eat deli meat or drink coffee. I meditated. I ate salmon. I’m on the most expensive prenatal vitamins money can buy and ordered a crib that will be delivered next week because I couldn’t wait.” I roll my shoulders. “I vetted the donors.”