Page 36 of The Difference Between

She’s seemingly satisfied because she closes the file. “We see a lot of the single women in a similar position. Strong professional lives who haven’t found the right partner. While women are having children later in life, there’s definitely age to consider. Some risks come along with being forty. Higher occurrences of babies with Down syndrome, higher miscarriage rates, possible egg quantity or quality issues.”

What?

My insides twist. I knew there were risks, I read about them in the book I bought, but having her say them out loud reduces time and adds pressure to do this now. Even if I wasn’t on a work deadline, I’m on a biological one.

Breathe, Reese.

I am healthy, and even if I don’t have a lot of time left, I do have time.

She sees my worry, adding, “You’re here now. There’s no need to be nervous or ashamed of wanting to be a mother, Reese. It’s biology. It’s part of being a woman.”

Right.

“Yes. Biology . . .”

For a second I wonder if something is wrong with me because I haven’t prioritized having a baby until the moment I told Trish I was. I’ve always wanted kids—I think of it every morning when I see women leaving the elevator for the twelfth-floor sperm bank—but I haven’t wanted them enough to make an effort. I’ve shoved it aside. Repeatedly. I don’t ever want my child to know that.

“. . . is hard to ignore,” I continue. “I can’t wait. I’ve been feeling so—” I sigh, not sure I know the word to explain how I feel about this situation. “Restless about it. Desperate even.” My thoughts are all over the place, but if I know anything about myself it’s that when I have this baby, I’ll be the best mom ever. The bonus will be the Fizz Co onesie in the designer diaper bag slung over my shoulder.

“You’ve come to the right place.” Dr. Cantor smiles brightly and I mirror it. “I know you have all the paperwork and seem to have done your research, but the process usually goes like this: We’ll do a few exams—bloodwork, pelvic ultrasound, hormone tests, things like that—and you’ll select a donor from the list. We are an open-ID facility, meaning our donors aren’t anonymous a⁠—”

“I saw that online.” I sit up a little straighter. “I was hoping to interview them.”

“Not that open,” she says with a chuckle. “It means when the child turns eighteen, they have the option to meet the donor.”

My stomach drops; I didn’t do deep-dive research on that because why the hell would that be what open identification means?

She continues. “Before then, you’ll get full profiles—photos, more information than most people know about their spouses, really. You won’t get their name or address—nothing allowing you to directly contact them.”

“What?” That won’t work. People lie on paper. Tests lie. I don’t trust anything other than my own two eyes, and I can’t get eyes on people through profiles. I’ve had company execs lie to my face about how good business is only for the ugly truth to be revealed the second I see the numbers. “Maybe if I choose one, you could contact them and see if they’d be open to a pre-impregnation meeting?”

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works.” At my frown, she adds, “And you have plenty of time to look over the donor catalog. It’s all online, but this is the physical copy.” She slides a binder toward me. The pages are covered with snapshots of men with lists of education, hobbies, genetic testing results, and health histories. “We cap our donor age at thirty-nine to ensure the best quality.”

Thirty-nine? That’s younger than me. The men I’ve dated have always been older.

For a split second, I think of Gavin. Not that I want to date him or have him father my child, but at how surprised I was at him being thirty and asking me out. It wasn’t his age per se, but more that the younger men are, the less they know themselves. The less they’ve accomplished or know where they’re going.

“How much do they get paid to jack off into a cup?” I ask, flipping the page.

Dr. Cantor’s expression falters. “I’m sorry?”

I pause mid-turn of a page. “It would be a telling piece of information.” I point to a photo of a thirty-two-year-old man. “Does this guy need the cash? If so, that’s a red flag.”

Her gaze bounces from the photo to me, brows pinched. “How so?”

I almost laugh. “At thirty-two, I’d expect the father of my child to be on a solid career path. Not at the top of his field, of course, but climbing. If donors get paid a lot, maybe that explains why this man”—I tap the photo—“would do it. Maybe it’s enough money to finally get his start-up going. Give him a leg up.”

Lines crease Dr. Cantor’s otherwise perfectly smooth forehead: My money’s on Botox. My eyes drop to her perky chest: Those are probably fake too. Good for her. She wants to look perfect, and she’s taken action to make it happen.

Or her husband had an affair and she’s overcompensating.

“But if it’s not a lot of money,” I continue, “that begs the question of why is this man spreading his seed? Is it because he wants to help someone who needs it? That would be altruistic and appreciated. But if he’s not—if he’s going into a room and beating off to porn for chump change because he needs beer money?” I scoff. “That’s not at all the kind of man I want fathering my child.” I have no idea why she seems confused. “Does that make sense?”

“Um.” She eyes the binder like maybe she gave me the wrong one. “I’m sorry, Reese. That’s not information I’m able to share . . .”

Fucking privacy laws.

I sigh. “Well, you can see how much easier it would be if I were able to meet the donors, right? We could clear the motives up and make this process so much easier.” I snap the binder shut. “You should pass that on to whoever you know at the ASRM.”