Folks used to razz me about it, but we’ve all gotten old and I don’t think fertility is what it was before the mill went down and the school closed and folks called me Sterile Marilyn behind my back. It never got to me. Back in those days, lots of gals here wore their kids like merit badges or medals they won in a race. May Torrence raised eight gap-toothed fools who never had the sense to move where they might find work, but every Mother’s Day she still packs their cheap grocery store cards around in that ratty old purse just so she can fan them in my nose down at the Food King. Luke never complained, said he liked how things were and I shouldn’t go wishing for what I couldn’t have. So I keep a nice house, and Luke spends hours on the lawn mowing and shooing the dogs. We’re always ready for company, and for lots of years I hosted all the showers in town. Weddings and babies are blessings long as they come in the right order. I had a little girl when I was sixteen. I went to stay at Aunt Ruth’s that summer. Nobody in this town ever found out, and you can bet I never told Luke. Luke always told everybody I was the one couldn’t have kids. His family line dies with him, but I know my baby’s out there somewhere, living.