Part Two: The Dream

For as long as I can remember, Emily and I shared one particular dream.

We wanted to become mothers. And watch our children grow up together.

We planned it when we were ten. Lying in a tent in my backyard with flashlights.

We’d live next door to each other. Our kids would cut through a hedge. They’d have a dirt path. They’d bury goldfish together and pour punch on boys who were mean to them.

“Pinky swear,” Emily said.

“Pinky swear,” I said.

Unfortunately, life didn’t unfold the way we’d imagined.

I married a man named Kevin when I was twenty-four. He was charming and funny and sold medical devices. We bought a little house in Columbus. We tried to have a baby.

Two years later, I found out he’d been having an affair with a woman from his office.

My marriage ended five years ago. It left me heartbroken and uncertain about my future. I moved back to Westbrook. I rented a small house three blocks from Sycamore Lane.

I’m a pediatric nurse at the children’s hospital in Columbus. I take care of other people’s babies all day.

Emily never married.

She had several serious relationships. A teacher. A firefighter. A sweet, quiet man named Paul she dated for four years, who left because he didn’t want children.

She’s a librarian at the Westbrook Public Library. The children’s section. She does story time on Tuesday and Thursday mornings with a puppet named Mr. Biscuit.

By the time we reached our thirties, we’d both grown tired of waiting for the right partners.

Part Three: The Idea

Then, one evening, Emily suggested something completely unexpected.

It was a Friday night in October. We were sitting on my back porch with a bottle of wine and a bag of Doritos. It was cold. We had blankets over our legs.

We’d been talking about babies. Again. Like always.

“Sarah,” Emily said. “What if our children weren’t simply childhood friends?”

I smiled.

“What do you mean?”

She leaned forward. She had that look. The one she used to get when she wanted to sneak into the community pool.

“What if they actually shared the same biological father?” she said. “They could be brother and sister. Or two sisters. Or two brothers.”

She grinned.

“Real siblings,” she said. “Not just like siblings.”

At first, I thought she was joking.

But Emily had already considered the possibilities.

She’d been researching for months. She pulled out her phone and showed me. Fertility clinics in Columbus. Sperm banks. Donor profiles. Success rates. Costs.

We could both become mothers through fertility treatment, she said. Using sperm from the same donor.

Our children would share a biological connection. Half-siblings.

And we could raise them together. Next door. Just like we’d always hoped.

“Emily,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“I know,” she said.

“Like, really crazy.”

“I know,” she said. “But think about it.”

The idea was unconventional.

But it gradually began to make sense.