There would not be children if she left. She thought about it sitting on the black-and-beige-speckled couch that was not particularly suitable for children. She was quickly becoming too old. She was nearly 37. She knew this because earlier in the year, in a moment of panic, she called out to Mark—Mark! I’m thirty-seven!

I’m
Thirty.
Seven.
Years.
Old.

Mark peeked into the living room to remind her that she was actually 36, which he knew, he said, because they were the same age. This came as quite a relief. Though she was not sure she believed him and proceeded to count out the years on her fingers until she realized there was a little more time.

She didn’t actually know if there would be children if she stayed either. What she did know was that all her friends were having children, and she sometimes felt left behind. Which wasn’t true, she knew that. There was nothing wrong with not having children, there was nothing wrong with her, yet she still felt as if she was failing somehow, not completely grown despite being old, not taking on the responsibilities of age, not contributing as she ought to.

When she walked through the neighborhood park on the way to their apartment, sometimes she felt a sting of longing at the sight of children on swing sets or a father holding his daughter’s tiny hand. She also thought the play area was terribly loud. She could really do without all the noise and chaos. Invariably there was some loud argument over the Title of a scooter, or some child with a scraped knee crying as though something had been amputated. She cringed at the idea of things like playdates and mommy-and-me-whatevers, even ones at the park where at least there was sun and grass and trees; a sense of space, the fantasy of flight.

And when that little boy threw wide, hitting her smack in the thigh with that enormous yellow water balloon, she thought: children were sometimes as insufferable as the parents that birthed them. Insufferable, like the boy’s mother, who yelled It’s just a water balloon! What’s the big deal?, from her position on the bench, as she walked by, now drenched. This despite her tact, having only nodded at the boy after being walloped, having not made a big deal about her sopping clothes or the red welt emerging on her thigh. She guessed she could have been more ebullient in forgiveness when the boy ran past mumbling an apology.

On days like that, she was uncertain she wanted to be a part of it any more than she already was, regardless of the rest.