They sat beside each other on a striped towel and licked their orange creamsicles, like the ones my sister and I had eaten by the dozens when we were little. Their dirty blonde hair had turned to tangles in the swimming pool. I reached out and wiped a swipe of melted orange from E’s cheek. She giggled as B licked the goo from her hand. We’d been at the swimming pool for hours, and our fingers were wrinkled like baby prunes, and we had sunburnt shoulders, but the summer was always so fleeting I didn’t have the heart to take us home before the lifeguards whistled us out of the water at closing time.
They were gorgeous, my girls. My heart twisted that familiar feeling of absolute love and deep terror I’d only ever felt since the two of them, with their bright blue eyes and little toes, appeared in my life. I watched them, studious looks on their faces, trying to prevent their popsicles from melting too quickly in the hot sun—and felt lucky—lucky to have two healthy girls, a pool to swim in, orange creamsicles.
It was August already, unbelievable; only one month until they had to be returned. E was seven, and B was five; the sweet ages, the lovely ages, old enough to know how to use a fork, to sleep through the night, but young enough that they adored Mama. Mama! I still thrilled at that title.
I always knew that I wanted children. It was the only thing I felt certain about in my entire life, the way some people feel about their careers or their spouses or their friends. I didn’t have any wild (or unwild) aspirations; I wasn’t lucky in love or exceptionally intelligent, but I knew I wanted to
