I was living with my mom, who was living in a decrepit, rambling old house, and I was trying to fix up a livable bedroom for myself in a junk-filled room. Then I was carrying around my newborn baby on my hip. She was an enormous baby; we held her up next to 2-year-old Henry and she was taller than him. I seemed to recall that I’d delivered her at home the day before, and when I asked why I’d had to have a home delivery, I was told that the birth happened so fast we couldn’t get to a hospital in time. I wondered who had cut the cord and cleaned up the mess. I asked whether we’d remembered to weigh and measure her, and we hadn’t, so I found a scale and weighed her and then laid her on my ruled sewing table to measure her (she was 22 inches.) Then I remembered she’d been an in vitro baby, and I was trying to figure out who her genetic parents were. She had chin-length wavy brown hair and freckles, and looked a little bit like Dean, so I was hoping he was the father. I was trying to remember whether Dean and I were married, and I thought we were, but I wasn’t sure. I also thought I might have had the baby as a surrogate mom, and was baffled as to why I would do that, when I had wanted a baby of my own so much.