Part Four: Daniel

After months of consultations, medical examinations, and careful discussions, we chose a fertility clinic.

The Columbus Reproductive Health Center. A big modern building on the north side of the city with glass walls and a fountain in the lobby.

They worked with a sperm bank called Heritage Cryobank. One of the oldest in Ohio. Founded in 1981.

We spent three weekends at Emily’s kitchen table, scrolling through donor profiles on her laptop.

Height. Weight. Eye color. Hair color. Education. Medical history. A short essay from each donor about why he’d decided to donate.

We selected a donor named Daniel.

That wasn’t his real name. The bank used first names only. Donor #4471, “Daniel.”

According to the profile, he was thirty-five. Six feet tall. Brown hair, hazel eyes. A PhD in biochemistry. He’d donated in graduate school, in 2014.

He’d passed every required medical screening. Genetic carrier testing for cystic fibrosis, spinal muscular atrophy, Tay-Sachs, and two hundred other conditions. All negative.

His essay was what sold us.

I was raised by a single mother, he wrote. I never knew my father. She told me he was a good man who couldn’t be there. I’m donating because I want to help people build families. Families come in all shapes. Mine was just me and my mom. And it was enough.

“He sounds kind,” Emily said.

“He sounds like us,” I said.

We completed the procedures in January.

Both of us. Same week. Same clinic. Same doctor.

And then we waited.

Part Five: Two Pink Lines

Then something wonderful happened.

I became pregnant.

I found out on a Tuesday morning in February. I took the test in my bathroom at six a.m. before my shift at the hospital. I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at those two pink lines until my alarm went off.

Then I called Emily.

She screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

Three weeks later, Emily discovered she was expecting too.

She showed up at my front door at eleven o’clock at night in her pajamas. Holding the test in her hand. Crying.

We stood in my doorway hugging for ten minutes.

We were overwhelmed with happiness.

We bought tiny baby clothes. A matching pair of onesies that said BEST FRIENDS and BEFORE WE WERE BORN.

We compared ultrasound pictures. We had our appointments on the same days, back to back, so we could go together.

We discussed names. Hundreds of names. We made lists on the refrigerator.

We imagined our children celebrating birthdays together. Cutting through a hedge. Burying goldfish.

For the first time in years, everything seemed to be falling into place.