Scrolling through sperm-donor pages within a Galentine’s Day brunch, my buddy Georgia couldn’t include her excitement. Between mimosa sips and eggs-Benedict bites, she fawned over GPAs, height, and hobbies that are quirky.
“This one had been a ginger infant,” Georgia grinned. Her locks had been the colour of Tabasco-braised carrots.
“Perfect,” I said. Underneath the dining table, my fingernails carved half moons into my palms. Her give attention to making a mini-me chafed. It echoed my own mother’s insistence that We seemed similar to her, along with her refusal to acknowledge any resemblance towards the guy who was simply my donor. Fortsätt läsa >