Remothering

Kestra hasn’t read Freud, but she trusts him when he says that everything is the mother’s fault. It was a validating truism for her twenties, and a constructive aspiration in her young thirties.

Lately, though, as a mantra, it’s become less motivating. More terrifying.

But all that inverts today. Because today, Kestra is going to buy a new mother.

She’s taken the day off work. She’s arrayed her pillows. She is primed, ready. But, even so, when her cracked mobile phone rings shrill as a starling, a rip of adrenaline ices her over. 

She fumbles through her comforter, her chest beating around the side-worry that always flares when Max isn’t home and the phone rings: that it’s the school, or a school liaison, or the police community phone tree. She lands on the phone, ember-hot, right next to her hip. 

“Good morning!” The female voice on the other end is musical, birdlike. 

Kestra squints and all that adrenaline leeches back into her bloodstream. 

“I’m calling from ReMother: May I get you a new mother?”

For a second, Kestra doesn’t breathe. “Yes.” Her voice is a whisper.

The phone woman asks if she’s speaking with Kestra and confirms with a security question: who would pick Kestra up from the airport if she flew in on a red-eye?

There’s another silence as Kestra tries to remember the answer she gave when it was late at night and everything was funny. What was Max’s old friend’s mom’s name? Vanessa? 

“Not Mark,” Kestra says.

The woman agrees. Not Mark.

“Then,” Kestra says, “there’s literally no one.”

“That’s exactly right!” The woman sounds so happy she’s almost demented. “That matches the information you provided, and I’ve confirmed that you are you.” A respectful pause. “You recently filled out our ‘contact us’ form and I’m following up on your interest.” Her voice flows like bath water, warm and rhythmic. “You’re in for such an exciting process! We have many moms to choose from. And they’d all be so proud of you.”

---

The pop-up appeared two months ago. Advertised on one of the darker websites Kestra had been finding during her 2 a.m. shame dives. Find yourself a New Mom! Today! 

She’d ignored it. Weeks passed and despite hours of dark, late-night site-hopping (Is Your Child a ‘Temporary Psychopath’? Take our Quiz!), the ad never reappeared. Kestra thought about it sometimes, though. About ordering a new mom, like a cocktail off a menu. Obviously, the site was bogus. 

But then the ad appeared again, and again on a website she’d never visit when Max was awake. (Assuming you cannot bury or cremate your pet, wrote said site’s moderator, carcass disposal is best accomplished in small, flushable bits and pieces. Max had been asking for a dog, but Kestra didn’t think it was a good idea. Now Mark was promising to get Max a puppy whenever he settled into his new place. For whole body elimination, rocks or sinkables zip-tied to limbs would sink a body almost indefinitely.) And then the pop-up: Could you use some new mothering? 

This time, Kestra tapped the link. 

ReMother’s landing page was a collage of pictures: smiling older women, middle-aged women, young women; racially diverse, all warm and softly-groomed and radiant, each one clutching new progeny. Like she’d won the Wonka bars. Because You Deserve a Mother’s Support was the headline. But that was it, no further links, no about us section, no explanation of how the process worked; no images of specifically available moms or quizzes to fill out to pair with a mom or drop-down menus of build-a-mom traits. Just a Contact Us form. 

Kestra had closed her computer. 

Two minutes later, she’d reopened it and, ideating, keyed in her phone number. She filled out a few questions. She hit “submit.”

---

“We can start with generalities. Do you have a defining personality type in mind for your new mom?” 

Kestra’s room is always so dark, even in the morning. “I can order any kind of mom I’d like? And you’ll deliver her. Like groceries.”

The phone lady nice-lady laughs. “More like an ever-blooming bouquet of flowers! But, yes.” She continues, “Are you thinking maybe an empath? A take-charge, leader-type? Organizer? Peacemaker? Activist?”

Kestra stretches her legs, trying not to let the comforter crinkle too loudly. She doesn’t want the phone lady to hear that she’s still in bed.

“To be honest—” Kestra knows who’d be an ideal mother: someone fun. Who’d laugh at gross boy habits. She’d be reliable. Calm. Supportive. Eternally patient. Everything Kestra wasn’t. “I’m worried I might pick badly.”

“There are no wrong answers here.”

Mothers are supposed to help their kids soar. But Kestra’s been sinking like a rock. She runs the edge of her sheet between her fingers. “What if I inadvertently repeat—you know—bad patterns?”

The phone woman “mm”s, serious. “Many clients worry about that. Except, do you know what your new mom would say?”

Kestra whispers, “What?”

Phone lady whispers, too. “Trust yourself, Kestra.” A pause. “Can you do that?”

Kestra presses her teeth into her lip. 

She shifts on her bed. She has very important deliveries coming. She’s not trustworthy. She told Max he was a nightmare.

“I could tell you what I don’t want. Can we start there?”

The lady on the phone makes an “oop” sound. “That doesn’t usually work.” 

Someone has to right this ship. Kestra chews the softness inside her cheek. “Do you have any nice moms?”

“Of course! All our moms are nice.”

This makes Kestra snort. 

“Unless you want New Mommy to be mean? Or naughty? We do have naughty mommies, but they’re handled through our other—”

“No.” Jesus. “No.” She recrosses her legs. “Just a nice mom.” She adds, “Please.”

“Sure thing. You’re off to a great start.” 

Kestra unexpectedly warms. “What else do you need to know?” She curls up one knee. She wonders what Max would choose if she had the guts to ask. Likely someone who says yes to video games; someone who knows how to react to notebooks filled with drawings of gargoyles, teeth for razors, disemboweling each other.

“Let’s get to specifics. We can start with gender.”

“Mine? Female.”

Kestra pretends they’re gargoyles, anyway.

Phone lady laughs. “What gender would you like New Mom to be?”

“Either. Or any? I just want her to be—I don’t know—tolerant.”

A pause. “She/her pronouns?”

Kestra shrugs. “Probably.”

The lady says “uh-huh” like she’s checking boxes on a list. “Race. Match yours, or would you like to specify?”

Kestra’s white. So is her mother. Mark’s half-Filipino. “Any.” 

“Cultural identities?”

Kestra’s mother once made Borscht for school heritage day, but that was just to impress Kestra’s teacher. Otherwise, French Toast was as cultural as her mother got. White bread white.

“It’s a sensitive topic. You can think on it if you’d like.”

Beyond Kestra’s bedroom window, the mid-morning sidewalkscape has come alive. Two moms power walk up the hill. A mockingbird shrills. A delivery van rumbles, idling across the street.

Kestra blurts, “Did you know Argentinian mothers engage with their babies most? Out of all the studied mothers in the world.” She discovered this after googling ‘how to connect to an angry twelve-year-old.’ 

“Oh.” A pause. “So, you’d like an Argentine mother? Or is ‘engaging’ a sub-preference you’d like to note?”

The delivery guy crosses the street and a second later knocks on Kestra’s front door. Then there’s a loud thud. The dumbbells, Kestra thinks. They got here fast. Her heart thumps.

“Sub-preference is fine.”

“Okay. How about creed?”

“The movie?”

“The religion.”

Ah. “None.”

The phone lady pauses. “Does that include designations of ‘spiritual but not religious’?”

“Eh,” says Kestra. “I guess.” 

“Let’s talk parenting styles. What’s your attachment preference? Any love languages you want represented?”

 Kestra grimaces. “ Well, Mom—I mean, Mrs. Mom-Finder—”

The woman makes a gentle coo. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. Mrs. Mom-Finder is fine. Or you can call me Shelley.”

Kestra leans against her pillows. Her plan might happen. She wasn’t expecting the dumbbells till next week.

“We can circle back to love languages. In general, are you thinking you want a mothery mom or a stern mom?”

Kestra squints at the ceiling. “She has to love kids. And be super patient.”

“Excellent. Keep going.”

“More?” The mom would have to be tough as leather. Kestra bites off a sharp cuticle. “Resourceful?” That’s a trait Kestra’s mom has. She considers walking it back. “And playful.” Max used to be playful. Silly. Thousands of hours ago.

“Playful?” Shelley’s voice sounds like it’s blinking.

Kestra stretches a shoulder. “Yeah. Youthful, but not immature.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Like, maybe she’d use nicknames?”

“Of course. Do you have one in mind?”

“Love Bug?” That’s Mark’s name for Max. Kestra casts about. “I don’t know… ‘Meatball?’”

Shelley’s voice squeezes again. “You want your new mom to call you ‘Meatball’?”

“No, I mean, not ‘Meatball.’ Something nice. Something she’d make up.”

Shelley clicks her tongue. “So, you want her to be creative?”

“Yeah.” Kestra leans forward. “I mean, no. Not, like, crazy-person creative.” She scratches at her forehead. “I just want her to like kids. I mean, me.”

“A mom who likes you. Got it.” Shelley is definitely taking notes now, rather than ticking boxes. “Sense of humor? Does that cover it?”

Kestra shrugs. “Okay.” 

“Excellent.”

“But loving, too.”

The words lace into Shelley’s exhale—must—be—loving. “Anything else?”

Outside, an elderly couple toddles down the sidewalk, the woman two steps ahead. The old man has rubber galoshes on. They’re probably on their way to the boardwalk near the river at the bottom of the hill.

“Whatever comes to mind,” Shelley says. “Be creative!”

Kestra squeezes her teeth together and the words come out like grunts. “I want a mom who’ll remember my kid’s goddamn birthday.”

 A pause. “Remember-birth-days.”

---

Kestra’s mother hasn’t done anything terrible. She just doesn’t seem to like Kestra all that much. She never liked hugs, or asking Kestra about her day. When Kestra was a kid, her mother’s distance had dried on Kestra’s skin like salt water. But once Kestra met Mark, it all stopped bothering her.

Until last night.

Yesterday was Max’s birthday. And her mother had called. Mark wouldn’t be over until the weekend, and Kestra had gotten presents—everything but the gaming system Max wanted—and doodled a card for him. She’d made him a warrior-hawk, wise, brave, scary. Max just yelled about the gaming system. Said he hated her, hated Mark. Everyone. When Kestra’s mother called and Max wouldn’t come talk and Kestra told her about their fight, Kestra’s mother had said, calm as snow, “Well, what did you think would happen, when you married a chiropractor?” 

---

“Hon? I said all our moms will remember important dates as long as you set the auto-reminders properly.” 

Kestra doesn’t respond. She’s trying to remember what word she texted her mother the night before.

“Shall we cover interests?” Shelley’s voice goes so bright it squeaks. “A lot of people want their new mom to bake cookies!”

Kestra doesn’t need a mom who bakes cookies. She needs a mom who knows how to say “I love you no matter what” to her grandson.

“All our moms have basic competencies in baking and cooking, as well as weather prediction i.e. telling you when to wear a sweater, essential home maintenance—” 

Kestra wonders what Max is doing at school in this moment.

“–grocery sale and coupon utilization optimization, utensil finding, kissing boo-boos. On that note, do you have any aphorisms you’d like her to repeat?”

Can’t you talk to me? has been Kestra’s favorite lately. But she stays quiet.

“Or special meals or dishes you’d like her to know?”

French toast. Kestra frowns. “Sushi?”

“Sushi’s more of a knife skill, I believe. Would you like me to request ‘knife skills’?”

“Sure.”

“As a requirement? Or a preference?”

Kestra warms, enjoying acting decisive. “Requirement.”

“Should we discuss temperament?”

Kestra nods. “Not mad?”

“Emotionally-speaking, or in a mental health kind of way?”

“Both? Both.”

“Not,” Shelley’s writing again, “psychotic.” And, “Not angry. Uh-huh. Not angry at you or in general?”

“At us, no. And in general, yeah. That, too.”

“Well,” the word stretches out of Shelley’s mouth. “Everyone gets angry sometime.”

“Oh.” Kestra pauses. “Maybe she gets frustrated at bad drivers?”

“Good choice. As for mental health?”

“Steady.”

“Steady. No surprises?”

“None.” None. New Mom’s not allowed to “pop by”’ for a visit when her new house in Boise is being painted right after Mark moves out, yet never mention that he’s gone; when Kestra gets another call from the school that Max is in trouble, that he’s gone after the sixth grade paraeducator again (the one who has it out for Max), New Mom is not allowed to sigh and say, “Well, kids need a two-parent home.” And when Max comes home from school and streaks up to his room, New Mom is not allowed to ignore him for the rest of her visit and refer to him as “the problem.” 

 “So you want calm?”

“Can we say ‘quiet but with an outpouring of love for me all the time’?”

“We can put that down, yes.”

“Understated love,” Kestra clarifies. “And she’s not needy about it.”

“Do you want your new mom to be physically affectionate?”

“Hugs,” says Kestra immediately. The image floods her brain like dopamine: hugging Stranger-Mom, feeling out her physique. She’d be hippy, squishy in the middle. Shorter than Kestra. Or lean? Max would like lean. Strong. Kestra adds, “No kisses. But yeah. Tight, squeezy hugs.” 

Outside, the elderly couple is back, this time on the opposite sidewalk, the woman still in front. The river is swollen from the rains, at a record high level. It will be that way for another month. Kestra is counting on it. But it was probably too much for the older couple. Too easy to slip in and get swept away. Too easy to drown.

“Tight—hugs.”

Kestra leans into her knees. “Not weirdly long hugs. Just: squeeze, release. She can inhale deeply, like maybe she likes how we smell. Getting misty-eyed over it is okay, too.”

“Misty—eyed. And hobbies?”

The mockingbird outside is whoop-whooping now, like a car alarm. 

What do normal moms do? Kestra’s own mother was a photographer, but she never took pictures of Kestra.

“Yoga is popular. Quilting. Dressage also, but you’d have to supply the horses and the stables, the tailcoat, et cetera. Or there’s swimming, cycling, water aerobics if you want a fit mom. Sleeping, sighing, staring at the ceiling if you want a depressed mom.”

Kestra looks up. “Do people order depressed moms?”

“You’d be surprised. Mostly they get picked up on clearance, but, then again, some people want a challenging mom.”

“Who in god’s name wants a challenging mom?”

Shelley’s laugh is kind, or at least it’s throaty and breathy like it’s been modulated to sound kind. “Folks who lost their struggling mother before her time. So they can do or say the things they wish they’d done the first time around.”

Oh.

“Our clients will choose specific cancers, even. We can’t guarantee an exact match, but we can get as close as, say, ovarian instead of uterine.”

Kestra’s temples pulse. Outside, another neighborhood mom passes. Kestra assumes she’s a mom; she’s wearing a Disneyland visor and she’s speed-walking in that I’m-a-mom-I-have-better-shit-to-do kind of way.

“Or melanoma instead of basal skin carcinoma, that kind of thing.”

“Goodness.”

“We do our best to be highly precise.”

Kestra exhales loudly and Shelley adds, “It can be a lot, discussing illness in an aging mother.”

“Not at all,” Kestra lies. She pictures her mother anciently old. Bluish crepe skin and violent, unfocused eyes. How she’d look on her deathbed. 

“Can I just order a healthy mom?” 

A brief pause. “Well, no mother is perfect.”

Kestra frowns. “Oh.” 

“I know, it’s disappointing.”

“You know what?” Kestra pushes away her covers. “This might be a bad idea.” 

“Nonsense! You’re doing great. And we can certainly get you a reasonably healthy mom.”

Kestra’s walls—too gray to be called blue; Mark picked the color last year when they were trying to liven things up in the bedroom—seem to recede into the shadows.

“Reasonably healthy?” 

“Health largely depends on how old she is. Do you have an age in mind?”

“Forty?” Kestra turned forty this year. “No. Forty-four. Is forty-four too young?”

“Not at all. We have moms as young as eighteen.”

“I don’t want an eighteen-year-old mom.”

“Forties is perfectly doable. We like to give a range—should I say forty to fifty?”

Kestra shifts to lean on her elbows. “Forty to forty-five.” The phone feels hot and is wet from her cheek sweat. “I know it’s young. Compared to me.”

“It’s perfectly fine.”

“It’s just—” She pictures Max’s face when he was younger. “Important.”

“Your age doesn’t matter so much. It’s your needs we cater to.” 

Kestra watches two red-headed finches scatter-hop on the tree outside her window. Finch mothers are known for being attentive, for staying with their young till they reach maturity. Even so, there are always some who toss their chicks out of the nest.

Kestra would never do that. But she understands cuckoos, who drop their eggs into other birds’ nests.

“Do you want to specify any preferences for certain hair color, eye color, shoe size?”

“Shoe size?”

“Some clients want to be able to share shoes with their mothers.”

Swapping shoes with a stranger. Kestra inhales through her mouth. “No.” Also. “Shelley?” She’s reached the point where she has to ask. “Are your moms real people?”

“Real?” Shelley’s inflection twists mid-vowel. “Of—course.” It sounds like she has more to say but has lost the air to say it. 

Silence between them blooms.

“I mean, they’re not, like, three-D printed, are they? Or robots?”

Another laugh, and suddenly Shelley’s voice is soothing and gentle again. “No, no. They’re flesh and blood. As human as you or me.”

Kestra wants to move on. Still, she has to know, “How do you get them? They’re not, you know. Human trafficked?”

Now there is a pause.

And it becomes a bigger pause.

Kestra switches phone ears and she listens to her brain justify why she can go forward with this even if the answer is yes, honey, all our moms are human trafficking victims. We used to specialize in persons of unspeakable ages but we’ve found that moms these days are in such high demand that, really, it made sense to pivot— 

“I don’t know the minutiae of all the moms’ origins, dear. But I can tell you: they’re all so happy to work with us and they’re all so excited to start over as a new mom to you.” Shelley smile-waits again. “Now, should we discuss frequency and terms of contact?”

Kestra pushes into her forehead with a thumb. “It sounds like they were probably trafficked.” 

“Well.” Shelley’s voice becomes more clipped, but it doesn’t lose its brightness. “It’s not on-brand to share this—people don’t like to think of mothers ‘opting out’—but all our moms have one-hundred percent signed on voluntarily.”

Kestra’s breath catches.

“To be honest—” Here, Shelley’s voice drops; it sounds now like it’s coming from one side of her mouth, like, hey now, I’m honestly being honest here. “A lot of them, the young and early-middle age ones, were parents of toddlers.”

Kestra leans forward. 

“And since they joined our program, they’ve been sleeping so soundly—well, you understand.”

One glance down the hallway, towards Max’s room. As a toddler, he never slept. “They weren’t a good fit.” Not everyone is. Just saying it makes Kestra’s ribs vibrate.

“Parenting young children isn’t for everybody. But our moms are only too delighted to try again with new adult children!”

Kestra picks at an ancient finger paint smear on her sleeve. “Are those kids okay? The toddlers?”

Shelley laughs. This time it sounds like the sweet teet-teet of the maternally gifted finches outside. “Of course! Some are now with grandmothers or aunties. Some even get new moms through us. It’s always a better fit this way, when the kids get to weigh-in.”

Kestra knows who she would have chosen. A TV mom, the funny one, the one who teased her kids and understood every mistake. Now she just wants one who isn’t murderously afraid of the teenage years.

“What about the older moms?” 

“Our older moms are often with us because they’re looking for more rewarding later-in-life parenting experiences. Perhaps they want a better return on their investment.”

Investment. Kestra’s career wouldn’t matter in the long run here. “Shelley, did I tell you I make a decent salary?” 

“Oh?”

 “And my son.” The meatball. “He’s so… unique.” Kestra hesitates. “And gifted.”

“Gifted! Has he tested well? All our moms would love to brag about a gifted grandson!”

Kestra presses fingers into the corners of her eyes. “No—but he’s really smart. Actually, the other day, he was encouraging me to work out and he knew all about ions in our brain chemistry and—”

“Very—smart. Good. I think I have all we need. I’ll plug all this into our system and we’ll be in touch with when you can expect a new mom.”

Little insect wings of adrenaline whirligig in Kestra’s chest. A new mom. Except. “And the payment—?”

More paper-shuffling on Shelley’s end. “We didn’t cover contact frequency, but I’ll connect you with billing and they’ll go over the packages with you.”

“Frequency.” 

“Yes. Frequency and type of contact. Phone calls, emails, visits. We have packages for everything.”

“It’s not full time?”

“Not…. usually. Especially for adult clients.”

Kestra doesn’t respond.

“But,” Shelley’s voice brightens. “There may be full-time packages available.”

Kestra nods, thinking. “And the fee for that…? I was hoping to pay in advance.”

“There is an initial payment, which can be extensive, though we work with wonderful loan officers. After that, there’s a monthly fee.”

“Okay.” Rough swallow. “Can it be set to autopay?”

“I’m sure it can.”

Kestra thinks about the dumbbells. Only the zipties are needed. The light in Kestra’s bedroom shifts to underwater blue. “I don’t know if I can afford it.”

“You said a moderate salary? Any debts? Bankruptcies?”

“Half a mortgage, a car payment. A lawnmower payment.”

“Sounds standard.”

“Phone payments. AC replacement financing. Monthly health insurance.”

“You should be fine.”

“We pay through the nose for health insurance. Oh, and student debt. It’s, you know. Large.”

“Of course.”

“And monthly subscriptions—TV, music, news I can’t stomach reading. Phone data storage, email data storage.” Sweat prickles at Kestra’s hairline.

“Yes, all fine.” A honed edge laces Shelley’s words.

But Kestra can’t stop. “Electric bills, gas bills, water bills.” She hopes the new mother is good at keeping track of these things. She should have said yes to an ‘Organizer’ mom. “County supplemental taxes. Trash and recycling monthlies; art classes; meditation group. Individual therapy, behavior therapy. Dental bills not covered by insurance; sushi.”

“Take-out isn’t necessarily a bill.”

“I’m on a payment plan.”

“I understand why you want a mother with knife skills.”

Kestra imagines it: slicing ribbons of meat so quickly they pulse in her hand. 

“Actually, did I ask for French toast skills?”

“French toast isn’t much of a skill.”

“Can you make it? I mean, can you put it down?” 

Shelley inhales.

“It’s important.”

“Then of course.”

Kestra waits. “I need this to work,” she blurts out. “The new mom.”

Shelley’s tone becomes bouncy, an athlete sprinting out her final lap. “Of course! When we find you the right mom, I’m sure you’ll both be delighted.” 

Kestra stops moving. She practices what it will be like to not breathe.

“Any questions before I transfer you to billing?” 

Kestra searches the shadows of her room. Her mind is gray. Two frames sit on her dresser: one, cracked and empty, used to house Kestra and Mark’s wedding photo. The other photo is of ten-month-old Max and Kestra’s mother holding him, a weird smile stretching her face.

Kestra’s eyes defocus. “Are the new moms permanent?”

Shelley hms. “Is that what you’re worried about? Rest assured, as long as you’re welcoming and appreciative of her, and not too argumentative—”

Kestra’s not argumentative. If she was argumentative, wouldn’t she be telling Mark to father-up? Or wouldn’t she be telling her mother that Max is normal, perfect? Wouldn’t she be doing anything besides watching the river swell and replaying every time she’s lost her temper and hoping Max improves with a better mom? 

Shelley goes on, “And as long as your linked bank account remains liquid and you pay the fees, you’ll have a new mom for as long as you want her!” 

Kestra’s sweater feels damp. She slides out of bed. She has to push a delivery box out of her way. This one holds a slim photo album. She was going to fill it for Max, to put in everything she wanted him to remember, all the letters she wrote him back when he was a baby and their connection was so much less complicated. All she’s put in so far is a post-it that says, I’m sorry.

Shelley adds, apropos of nothing, “Provided, of course, that you don’t outgrow her.”

Outgrow her. Kestra calculates average life spans. The next ten years are the most important, and then the ten after that. A forty-something mom who’s healthy should be around for twenty years, no problem. 

“We won’t outgrow her. But,” Kestra thinks to ask, “is satisfaction guaranteed?”

The slightest of pauses. “We can offer you up to two placements. If your second new mother doesn’t work out, then we close your account and terminate the relationship. The monthly contract will end, but the initial placement fee is non-refundable.”

Terminate the relationship. 

“Okay?” Shelley makes a little grunt, like she’s changing positions, stretching her body. “Anything else, hon?” 

“Actually—do you have any suggestions on the other thing?” Kestra braces her back with one hand. “The termination of my relationship… With my current mom?”

“Yes!” Shelley is so good at sounding understanding. “We can handle that for you, as an add-on option. We’re happy to facilitate the relationship transfer, or you can do it yourself. We only ask that you don’t ghost your current mother.”

“Oh?”

“It can make it harder with the new mom. To establish rapport.”

Relationship transfer. Kestra forces a rough-cut imitation of Shelley’s ‘mm.’ 

“Great, then! If that’s absolutely everything, then I’ll put you on a quick hold and transfer you. And let me be the first to say: welcome to ReMother, where necessity is the mother of all attention!”

Kestra sits up, too quickly. Blood pools downward out of her head. 

“It’s been a delight speaking with you. I wish you all the luck in the world!”

Kestra has to blink away black and red flashing spots in her eyes. She sags, whispering, “Is there a time frame? For the new mom.”

“Oh. Well, as soon as you pay the placement fee or qualify for the loan, you’ll be matched. In the unexpected event that you don’t match with any of our current moms—”

The black dots morph into flashing fireworks. “I thought you said you had a big inventory?”

For the first time, Shelley stutters. “Well, a quick match is likely, but, of course, ‘nice and sushi-knife-skills and mentally stable and not self-hating, and cancer-free,’ et cetera, well, it all might be a little hard to match.” She pauses. “And ‘misty-eyed.’ Goodness, was that because you wanted her to cry a lot, or was it an eye condition?”

Kestra pretends she can’t remember, either. 

“I’ll cross it off. Anyway, in the event that you don’t match with any of our current moms, we’ll keep you on file until we find you the perfect new mom.”

Without thinking, Kestra reaches across her bed to her side table. She grabs the post-it notepad she has for Max’s scrapbook. Not everyone is fit for motherhood.

A delivery van shuffles up the road.

“Okay.” Kestra listens to the van’s rattle.

Max deserves a good mom.

“Hon?” says Shelley.

Kestra watches the short curve of her neighborhood road through the window and thinks it’s weird that she and Mark chose this suburb. They’d always dreamt of living in the woods. Somewhere in the trees. Outside, the delivery van stops. When did they decide to make their lives so small? So fearful? The driver steps out with a small package. 

“Honey?” Shelley’s voice is losing its luster. “Are we all set?”

Kestra’s throat burns. Hot against her ear, the phone vibrates. Another call coming in. Kestra hopes it’s not the school, that Max is safe. 

All she wants is for him to thrive. She picks up a pen.

Outside, the juncos clatter. A finch whittle-twits. The fit moms power back up the sidewalk, heading home. Alone, a red-tailed hawk looses an underworldly scream as it guns towards the ground. Downstairs, the doorbell rings. 

That’ll be the zip ties.

Her phone buzzes again. Yes, she’s set.

Kestra laughs out loud. The pigeon heart thumping inside her. Max is the brave one.

“Hon?” asks Shelley. 

 Kestra writes, I love you, kid on the top post-it. 

“All set to order?”

Kestra looks at her phone: it displays her mother’s—her real mother’s—number from Idaho.

Kestra kneels on her soft, gaudy rug and she opens her mouth to speak. She pictures Shelley at home, standing, eager to end the call, to get to yoga. 

“Ma’am?” Shelley says, crows in her voice.

On her phone, Kestra presses “decline” on her mother’s call. She flips open Max’s scrapbook and crumples the only message that is inside. To Shelley she says loudly, “I’m sorry. I need to go. I have to go get my son.”