That year, I asked only one question and spent a lot of time looking out my apartment’s kitchen window. The view was mostly a three-story ailanthus, its leaves orange and lavender at the end of the day. The phone rang. It was my mother. That year, I didn’t like talking to my mother, and I asked questions to avoid having to talk about myself. But really, I was only asking one question: Will I have a child? I was thirty-four. “Oh hi, oh hi honey,” my mother had said into the voicemail I very rarely . . .
RESTRICTED CONTENT
Tbis content is restricted to paid subscribers with digital access only.
Non-subscribers may purchase a PDF of this article by clicking the "Purchase PDF" button, above.
Current subscribers with digital access: Login here to access content.
Institutional users, find out how your institution or organization can sign up for access to LIBER's content.
Not a subscriber? Subscribe now to instantly unlock all of LIBER's online content and downloadable PDFs!
