The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,15

my cervical mucus that was attacking Brian’s sperm. My husband’s healthy, well-intentioned swimmers were being murdered by the evil guardians of my barren womb. I envisioned a horror-movie scenario where stalwart explorers were taken out by a giant vulva with snapping shark teeth. It was a wonder Brian could bear to touch me.

Eventually, we decided to adopt. We didn’t need a biological connection to love a child and make it ours. After diligent research, we found a reputable agency to help facilitate an identified adoption. This meant that a birth mother would select us. Brian was uncomfortable with some of the tactics the agency recommended. In addition to posting a “sparkling” profile on their site, they suggested we create our own website and Facebook page, sharing photos of our home, our travels, our pets, and our hobbies.

“I feel like we’re trying to sell our apartment or our car. But we’re selling ourselves,” he said.

“There are a lot more people who want to be parents than there are babies,” I countered. “We need a pregnant mom to choose us over everyone else.” So we smiled for the camera; we poured our hearts out on video; we showed off our tidy home, our outdoorsy lifestyle, our devotion to each other. (I wanted to adopt a rescue dog, but Brian’s allergies precluded it.)

And it worked! We were chosen! A seventeen-year-old girl named Mia selected us. She had wide-set eyes, a bow of a mouth, and long dark hair. She lived in a suburb of Chicago, was five months along when we were introduced via Skype. Her bump was clearly visible, we were meeting our baby, too.

I liked her. Mia was cute and bubbly and bright. We messaged often, Skyped once a week. She sent us her twenty-two-week ultrasound photo on time, our baby the size of a small banana.

“It’s a girl,” Mia told us, and Brian and I burst into happy tears.

My chats with Mia went beyond the pregnancy. She told me about the baby’s father, a cute, sporty boy whom she had thought she loved, until she realized he was selfish and immature. There was drama in her friend group, some related to her condition, some typical mean-girl stuff. Her parents were supportive, she said, but they didn’t want to engage with Brian and me. It was hard for them to give away their grandchild, but they knew it was for the best.

“It might make them feel better if they spoke to us,” I suggested.

“One day,” she assured me.

Mia said the things I needed to hear. “My baby is so lucky to have parents like you.” And “One day, I’ll be a great mom, too. I’m just not ready yet.” I felt altruistic. We were giving a baby a loving home; we were giving her mother a chance to grow up.

The agency insisted that all financial help be funneled through lawyers. Mia’s family had not arranged counsel yet, so we would have to reimburse her for the doctor’s bills, the prenatal vitamins, and the maternity wear. But I sent her gifts: a rich buttery lotion that would prevent stretch marks; a diffuser and several calming essential-oil blends; tickets to a concert she wanted to see. She was moved and grateful. Our bond developed.

But I needed more. I needed to meet her in person, to share a meal with her, to hug her. “We should go to Chicago,” I said to Brian. “I don’t want our first meeting with Mia to be when we take her baby away.”

He agreed, so I shared the news with Mia on a video call.

Her brow furrowed. “I’ve got a big exam coming up,” she explained.

“We’ll work around your schedule,” I offered. “We’ll come whenever it works for you.” She smiled then and relaxed. So we set a date and flew to O’Hare. Mia wanted to meet us at her favorite restaurant in Wilmette. Her parents would have us over for dinner the following evening, but we would meet alone first. It made sense to me. This would be an overwhelming encounter. As I settled myself into the booth of the Italian joint, I was jittery, emotional, on the verge of tears. I had brought Mia a gift—a necklace with two heart pendants. It had been expensive, but I wanted her to have it. I loved her and what she was doing for us.

We waited for an hour. And then for two. I sent her an e-mail, but it bounced back. My Skype insisted there was no such