Before dogs that came with their own given names, my pets were nameless. I did not know their ages, their genders. They lived in cages. My leopard geckos, my yellow parakeet. There was also the crayfish I took home from school and hid behind discards on my dresser, sorry and afraid. Six months, we lived that way. A carnival frog, no bigger than a thimble, dead in seven days.

I flushed or buried them, beloved or not. In all that time, I don’t remember ever holding a pillow under my T-shirt and standing sideways at a long mirror, an empty vessel.

You’ll have two children, a psychic told me, barring miscarriages or abortions. Fine print already written in the stars. Did she say the same to all young girls?

There were a few things I knew. Not every prophecy must be fulfilled. A boyfriend said, One day, Someday. Kindly, as if I were ill. Another said, But you would be such a good mother. They each had babies, with names coated in nectar and rock salt. A relative said when you’re 31—or was it 32? You’ll want to. He said, Just wait. The thought will consume you.