My 18-year-old son moved into an apartment with his childhood best friend. I thought they were prepared to handle life independently. But only two days later, Wyatt returned home in tears. He locked the door and whispered, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. Please don’t call Austin.” Then he gave me a document he’d discovered at Austin’s house, and what I read nearly made me collapse.

Eventually, Dr. Mercer brought up the subject of using an anonymous clinic donor, explaining that Dan could be present for every prenatal visit, every ultrasound, and the birth itself.

Dan was actually the one who agreed first while we were sitting out on the back porch one summer night.

“I do not care about passing down my bloodline as long as I can be a real father to our child every single day,” Dan told me firmly.

We sat at this very kitchen table with a thick black binder full of anonymous medical profiles from the clinic.

Dan turned the pages until he stopped at Donor 5219.

“Look at this profile, Laura,” Dan had whispered, his eyes lighting up. “He is tall with dark hair and hazel eyes, and he wrote in his summary that he loves woodworking and crafting furniture by hand.”

Dan looked at me with an expression of pure, desperate hope that I can still picture today.