Twelve-year-old me would’ve told you that she’d be married and have kids by age thirty. I believed it so deeply that I felt compelled to tell Chris mere weeks into our relationship. I was twenty-seven then; three years seemed to be enough time to date Chris, marry him, and get him pregnant by the big 3–0. That way, I could (almost) ensure I’d produce healthy babies and have my second child before I turned thirty-five. Forget traveling and writing “that book,” or in Chris’s case, building that company. Parenthood was the end game.