“I know,” said Madison. She was sullen again. “And you drove me all the way to Manly and you stopped in the car park and you and Daddy and me all fell asleep in the car, and then you took me on the beach and I rolled over for the first time. Whatever.”

“Yes!” said Alice excitedly—she remembered. “The baby rolled over on the picnic rug! We got takeaway coffees from that place with the blue awning. And toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches.”

It felt like yesterday and it felt like a million years ago.

“I slept through the night when I was eight weeks old,” said Olivia. “Didn’t I, Mum? I was a gold-star sleeper.”

“Just—shhhh,” said Alice, holding up her hand, trying to focus. She could see that morning so clearly. The baby’s striped suit. Nick’s unshaven face and red eyes. A seagull white and squawky against a very blue sky. They were so tired, they were light-headed. The blessed feeling of the caffeine hitting her bloodstream. They were parents. They were filled with the wonder and the horror, the bliss and the exhaustion of being parents.

“Mummy,” whined Olivia.

If she remembered that day, she should be able to feel her way back to when Madison was born. And she should be able to feel her way forward to the day that Nick packed his bags and left.

“Mummy,” said Olivia again. Oh, please be QUIET. She groped about in the dark but there was nothing else.

All she had was that morning.

“But Nick,” she began.

“What?” he said grimly, irritably. He really didn’t like her. It wasn’t just that he didn’t love her anymore. He didn’t even like her.

“We were so happy.”

Elisabeth’s Homework for Jeremy 3 a.m.

Hi J. Ben drove off somewhere. I don’t know where he is.

I’m so tired.

Hey. You know how if you say a word over and over again, it starts to sound really weird?

Like, let’s say the word is, oh, I don’t know, INFERTILITY.

Infertility. Infertility. Infertility. Infertility.

It’s a twisty, curly, nasty word. Lots of syllables.

Anyway, Jeremy, my darling therapist (as Olivia would say), my point is that things become weird and pointless if you examine them for too long. I’ve thought about being a mother for so many years the whole concept has started to seem weird. I’ve wanted it, wanted it, wanted it. Now I’m not even sure if I wanted it in the first place.

Look at Alice and Nick. They were so happy before they had the children. And sure, they love their kids, but let’s be honest, they’re hard work. And it’s not like you get to keep those adorable babies. Babies disappear. They grow up. They turn into children who are not necessarily that cute at all.

Madison was the most beautiful baby. We adored her. But the Madison of today doesn’t seem to have anything to do with that baby. She’s so furious and strange and she can make you feel like an idiot. (Yes, Jeremy, a ten-year-old can make me feel inferior. That shows a lack of emotional maturity or something, doesn’t it?)

Tom used to bury his face in my neck and now he wriggles away if I try and touch him. And he tells you the plots of TV shows with a lot of unnecessary detail. It’s sort of dull. Sometimes I think of other things while he’s talking.

And Olivia is still gorgeous, but actually she can be manipulative. Sometimes it’s like she knows she’s being cute.

And the FIGHTS. You should see them fight. It’s amazing.

See. I’m a terrible auntie. I’m making bitchy remarks about those three beautiful children, whom I hardly see anymore anyway. So what sort of mother would I be? A horrible one. Maybe even an abusive one. They’d probably take my children away and give them to someone else. An infertile woman could adopt them.

You know, Jeremy, once, when Olivia was a toddler, I minded her for a whole day. Alice and Gina were out at some school function. Olivia was perfectly behaved and she was so cute, she would have won an award for the cutest baby, but you know, by the end of the day, I was BORED OUT OF MY SKULL from walking around after her and saying, no don’t touch that, ooooh yes, look at the bright light.

Bored. Tired. A bit irritable. I was relieved to hand her over when Alice came home. I felt as light as a feather.

How’s that? All this “oh, poor me” obsession with being a mother and I was bored after one day.

I’ve always secretly thought that Anne-Marie, my friend from the Infertiles, would make a terrible mother. She’s so impatient and brittle. But maybe they’re all thinking that about me, too. Maybe we’d all make terrible mothers. Ben’s mum is probably right when she says that “Nature knows best.” Nature knows that I would make a terrible mother. Each time I get pregnant, Nature says, “Actually, this kid would be better off dead than having a mother like her.”

After all, Ben’s mum couldn’t have children either and look at her, she DID make a terrible mother.

The bottom line is, we shouldn’t adopt.

I don’t want to be a mother anymore, Jeremy.

A mother. A mother. A mother. A mother.

Sounds like smother. It’s a weird word.

I don’t even know why I’m crying.

Frannie’s Letter to Phil Mr. Mustache turned up at my door this morning just as I was about to leave for Tai Chi.

I almost didn’t recognize him. He’d shaved off his mustache.

I said, “I hope you didn’t do that for me.”

His upper lip looked so naked! He seemed like an entirely different person. Softer and gentler. Although at the same time, more sophisticated and . . . masculine.