"You're f*%ked"

Almost one year ago exactly, John and I were in Quebec. For months, we had been enduring the broken promises made by our American liaisons, all those "hurry up and wait" phone calls that left us feeling frustrated and helpless. We needed a break. We left the day before my birthday.

Before we left, our friend Hilary reminded us that, three years before, while she was vacationing with her husband in Quebec, she got a phone call alerting her to the fact that she was going to have twins. And the next day, the morning of my birthday, our liaison called us to tell us that twin girls, "seven or eight months old," were waiting to be adopted. She sent us a picture via my computer. As soon as I saw their eyes, I knew I would never forget them. Still, twins. We talked about it, and agreed to take some individual time to think. John went for a run. I got on the phone with Miranda.

Miranda and I talked about the pros and cons while I simultaneously stared at the picture, and then forwarded it to her. She stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence. "Oh, you're f*%ked," she said, and I knew she was looking at the picture, too.

John came back and we went for a walk. "What do you want to do?" I asked him. "I want those girls," he said. Then, he talked about twins in terms of "economies of scale." Our liaison asked us to name them since they had no formal names. We walked through a beautiful garden that reminded me of the beautiful girls on my computer screen. I knew that, someday, I would walk with them through such a garden. We named the girls. There was no turning back.