Page 21 of The Difference Between

I am the Red Queen, and that title has landed me in a place where my constant effort and being the best is my baseline, and anything less than that is pointless. Where the concept of being told to stand still for three months might as well be a death sentence.

But unless Trish calls me and undoes all this, I can’t fight it. I may be stubborn, I may not want to not work, but I also know how to do what needs to be done. If The Family wants me to take a break, I’ll do it for no other reason than proving I can listen. I can adapt and take the momentary setback if it gets me back on top.

And the way Rue and Remy are handling Mom’s recovery with birthday parties and rotating check-ins, they clearly need my help.

Instead of telling them, I text Trish. I’m going to Fontain to be with my mom.

She responds instantly. I’m so glad. If you need more time for the pregnancy, please let us know. Whatever you need.

At this, I nearly drop my phone. Pregnancy. I forgot about that.

I said it in the heat of the moment—to show her she can’t tell me that I’m missing something because I already know—but I didn’t expect it to stick.

I could tell her I changed my mind or want to postpone because of my mom, but that might lead her to telling me I need more time. I don’t want more time—I’m missing most of Q4 as it is. If anything, I want less time. I have to do this. I have to commit to the lie. And it’s not like I don’t want kids, I’ve just been waiting for the perfect man and time. It’s ironic because that’s not something I’d ever do in business—the perfect time happens when we make it happen—but it’s not like I can manufacture a successful man who will stand up to me instead of shaking in his loafers when I challenge him and doesn’t whine like a little girl because I work long hours. That man probably doesn’t exist.

After nearly two decades of deals, I know better than anyone that we’re often forced to create the perfect time out of less-than-ideal circumstances. If I use this sabbatical to have the child I thought I’d have by now, at least something good will come out of it.

I’ll have a baby and Fizz Co.

And while I’d never consider getting pregnant by a sperm donor in any other situation, maybe this is the exact thing I need. Maybe I’ve never met the right man because the right man is a myth. So I’m not married? Like every deal, concessions must be made. As much as I love getting everything I want, maybe the job, the money, and the baby are it for me. I can have one without the other: I can be a mom without a man.

A good mom.

The best mom.

Maybe the man will come later. And if not, that’s fine too. I’ve been alone for years and it’s never been a problem until today.

A quick internet search lands me on a small fertility center in Fontain that has its own sperm bank and initial consultation openings in three weeks.

At the pictures of moms holding babies, it’s easy for me to see myself as one of them. I want a girl, and I want her to look just like me. Maybe I’ll be one of those moms who wear matching clothes with their child and call her mini me.

We’ll go shopping together! Now that makes me giddy. She’ll be the best-dressed kid in preschool.

This sends me on a mental detour to all the things I need to do before the baby gets here. Daycares and preschools are hard to get into in the city, I need to start researching. Get on lists.

The baby itch usually hits me in spells of mere seconds—when I see a woman pushing a stroller or when I’m shopping and pass the baby department—but maybe I’ve always been able to thwart those feelings because I’ve never been with a man that I could see fathering my child. Maybe I am controlling with too high of standards and a slight inability to show feelings, but with this route, a man’s opinion won’t matter. I’ll pick the perfect donor and have a baby sans the pressure of a relationship.

I’ll come back to Chicago the woman The Family wants me to be and get Fizz Co. I’ll leave work early for pediatrician appointments and story times at the library. They’ll be so proud, my condo won’t be empty, and Matt can suck a dick-shaped lollipop.

I’ll be a mom. A working mom. A well-balanced, working mom. It seems so simple I don’t know why I haven’t thought of using a sperm donor before. It’s brilliant, really. And so efficient.

To Trish: Thank you, but three months will be plenty of time. I’ll have my computer with me to do whatever needs to be done and to stay in the loop about Fizz Co.

Trish: Sent a memo telling everyone that you’re out of office and to direct all account questions to myself or one of the other partners. You can catch up when you get back. Enjoy your time.

My head spins with the timeline. This break isn’t what I want, but there’s no turning back because I want that account. If that means going back to Fontain to take a break, take care of my mother, and have a baby, that’s what I’m doing.

I don’t fall short—ever—and this won’t be where I start.

To my sisters: You can’t have a karaoke birthday party with 12 screaming kids in Mom’s backyard a month after she has brain surgery.

Rue: We’ll fly them up to Chicago.

Me: Don’t bother. I’ll come back to Fontain.

Rue: Remy, did you read that same message from Reese I did or am I hallucinating?

Remy: I screamed in the elevator and dropped one of the coffees.