She jumped off the bed, got a piece of paper from a paper bag under a folding closet, and gave it to me. It was a medical report with a colored picture of her womb. According to the report, at the age of forty-four she was able to have a baby and her period was perfectly normal.
“This is silly, I know. But as a loved woman, I can’t help it,” she stated, “I can’t stop fantasizing about bearing him a child. Hasn’t this aff air been going long enough? How much longer will I be fertile? What if he is old and sick and all alone? Who will take good care of him there while I’m here?”