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“My husband wanted too little from life. And me? I wanted too much.

Suddenly it was obvious: Caleb should’ve been born a woman, and I should’ve been born a man. A sad sickness turned my stomach. We were equally broken in that way.”

“My expression was frozen in a debutante scream. Milk. My husband wanted milk. Beneath the artificial delight was a curdling feeling, a distinctly unsettling sense that I had unknowingly married and been impregnated by a toddler.”

“This was it: the moment I lost my patience. So I did what any good Christian woman would do when she can no longer bear to do nothing: I went to my mother in tears, and she instructed me to call his mother in tears, and then his mother called him in a hurricane of humiliation and fury.”

But motherhood is its own kind of curation. Which is to say: every woman I know lied to me about what it would be like, before I became one myself.