But the truth was, the day I completed secondary education and was shipped to Boston was the last time I set foot on British soil.
The last time my father saw me.
It was the perfect betrayal, really.
I used his wealth and connections until I didn’t need them anymore.
An advanced law degree from an Ivy League school was sufficient capital to bag a 400k a year partnership at one of the biggest law firms in Boston. By my third year, I tripled that amount including bonuses.
And now? Now I was a self-made millionaire.
My life was mine. To lead, to rule, and to cock up.
And the only dumbwaiter I was stuck in was deep in my head.
The voices from my past still echoed inside it, reminding me that love was nothing but a middle-class affliction.
Present Day.
“Uterine malformation,” I repeated numbly, staring back at Doctor Bjorn.
I felt ridiculous. In my tight red leather pencil skirt and cropped white shirt, one leg flung over the other, my high-heeled Prada sandals dangling from my toes. Everything about me screamed woman. Everything other than the fact that, apparently, I couldn’t have children.
“That’s what the ultrasound indicated.” My OB-GYN gave me a sympathetic look, somewhere between a flinch and a grimace. “We ordered the MRI to confirm the diagnosis.”
It was peculiar that the thing I thought about in that moment wasn’t the implication of my condition, but rather how profoundly and oddly hairy Doctor Bjorn was.
Like a Teacup Pomeranian, though not half as cute, he appeared to be in his early sixties, salt and pepper hair covering most of him. From his bushy eyebrows and wild mane to the fluffy tufts on his fingers. His chest hair curled out of his green scrubs, like he was hiding a chia pet.
“Explain to me what it means again. Uterine malformation.” I cupped my knee, sending him a lip-glossed smile.
He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.
“Well, your diagnosis is uterine septum, the most common form of uterine malformation. This is actually good news. We’re familiar with it and can treat it in various ways. Your uterus is partially divided by a muscle wall, which puts you at a risk of infertility, repeated miscarriages, and premature birth. You can see it right here.”
He pointed at the ultrasound photo between us. I wasn’t in the mood to make direct eye contact with my failure of a uterus, but I looked anyway.
“Infertility?” I wasn’t in the habit of parroting people’s words, but … what the shit? Infertility! I was barely thirty. I had at least five more years to make gorgeous, memorable mistakes with random men before I needed to think about having babies.
“Correct.” Doctor Bjorn nodded, still mesmerized by my lack of emotion. Didn’t he know I had none? “Paired with your PCOS, it could be an issue. I am happy to discuss the next steps with you—”
“Wait.” I raised a hand, waving my red-tipped French manicure back and forth. “Go back to that abbreviation. PC-what?”
“PCOS. Polycystic ovary syndrome. It says in your file that you were diagnosed at fifteen.”
Right. Things were a bit hazy when I got to the hospital that time.
“I’m guessing it’s not good either,” I deadpanned.
He swiped a thumb on his phone—to me it was a low point in my life, but to him it was just another Wednesday. “It could cause more infertility issues.”
Great. My womb gave Monica from Friends a run for her money. I wanted to pick a fight. I turned my wrath toward Doctor Bjorn.
“What does it even mean?” I huffed. “Isn’t uterine malformation an issue that develops over the course of a pregnancy?”
With another apologetic smile, Doctor Bjorn turned to the screen in front of him and frowned, his bushy eyebrows high-fiving one another. He clicked his mouse to scroll through my medical history. Stupid mouse with stupid-sounding clicks.
“It does say here that you had a spontaneous abortion at the age of fifteen.”
A spontaneous abortion.
Like I decided to go to coffee with a friend.
Doctor Bjorn looked so embarrassed that I was surprised he didn’t dig a hole in the carpet and disappear to the bottom floor. His eyes asked me if it was true. His mouth did not. He knew the answer.
“Oops.” I smiled grimly. “That’s right. Must’ve forgotten. It was a busy year.”
Doctor Bjorn stroked his furry arm. “Look, I know this is overwhelming—”
I let out a throaty laugh. “Please, doc. Spare me the we’re-here-for-you leaflet speech and let’s get down to business. What are my options?”
“You have plenty of options!” he announced, perking up. This, he could work with. Solutions. Facts. Science. “There are ways to ensure your future parenthood. If you are interested in becoming a mother, of course.”
I was tempted to say no, I wasn’t about the changing diapers or waxing poetic about stick figure drawings life. That motherhood was a force of disempowerment for women in a highly patriarchal society. To some extent, I even believed this post-feminist ideology. After all, I was a self-employed business owner whose life ambition was to piss people off. I would smash a pickle jar on the floor and eat it, glass and all, before I’d ask a man to open it for me.
But I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.
The truth was, I did want to become a mother. With every fiber of my being.
It wasn’t sophisticated or ambitious or noteworthy, but it was true. Which was why a few weeks ago, I had paid my first visit to Doctor Bjorn to ensure my reproductive system was in pristine order and ready to go, whenever I decided to go for it. Needless to say, it wasn’t.
“Yeah.” I shrugged noncommittally. “I am, I guess.”
Doctor Bjorn cocked his head and frowned. He tried to decipher why, exactly, I was behaving this way. Like he was trying to sell me solar panels and I was blowing him off. Was I not an environmentalist?
“In that case, the first stage is to freeze your eggs.”
I shot him a sweet, impatient smile.
“Are you planning to carry your future children to term?” he asked.
“Can I evacuate them during the second trimester?” I yawned, checking my nails. “Don’t babies need to be fully cooked?”
“What I mean is, your age should be one of your considerations. Each passing year, the risk of a miscarriage or a premature birth rises.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” I pressed.
“You may want to consider surrogacy if you plan to have children later in life. Ideally, and considering the complications, if you’re ready, you should try to get pregnant right away. But ultimately, I don’t want you to feel rushed.”
A little too late for that, boo. I went from having five years to being tossed onto the highway of motherhood the minute he said that. Because, again—what the shit? This wasn’t my life. I was supposed to wait until thirty-five, choose a hunky sperm donor—I was even going to splurge and get the really expensive membership to the sperm bank so I could see pictures of these potential men—then pop out a couple kids and create my own mini family.
“Next month seems like a good time to get pregnant,” I heard myself say. “Let me see if I can move my waxing appointment.”