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Farah was right, of course, and even my own doctor doesn’t understand why I haven’t moved to IVF after five years. Only Rini could understand. Earlier she said I lived in a fantasy world, but I call it a utopia of my own making. And in my perfect world, conception is a miracle that doesn’t require medical intervention. I want to live there a little while longer, even though I know at my age I can’t afford to stay too long.

I smiled at Farah for her genuine input. She had surely faced patients with the same look of desperation I tried to hide.

“Thanks for saying that,” I said.

“Well,” Eden said. “Even with medical help, you aren’t entitled to a child because you want one.”

I picked up my fork and stabbed a cherry tomato drenched in balsamic vinegar. I felt the spew of seeds in my mouth before forcing it down.

“It sounds like you’re mistaking my desire for something else,” I said.

“That you seem to believe you deserve one,” Eden said. “As if deservingness has anything to do with science.”

“How about you, Aimee?” I asked, trying to bring the subject back to the readings.

“Me? I get pregnant every time Adam looks at me.” She laughed, not picking up on my cue.

“You’ve always played by the rules to not get pregnant. Now you flip the switch and don’t understand why it didn’t happen on the first try,” Eden said.

“I have a stable job, a great relationship, and a loving home—the right circumstances to bring a new life into.”

“If you’d acknowledge your entitlement, it could free you. Maybe you’d actually get pregnant,” Eden said.

Adam returned from his reading and walked over to the wet bar. His presence made me bolder. Whatever Eden was trying to do, she was not going to get me to snap. My composure is vital to my career as a lawyer.

“You know nothing about me, or my husband, or my family,” I said.

“Hey,” Adam interjected. I watched him expectantly, waiting for him to back me up. “Settle down, Margot,” he said instead.

I stood and adjusted my dress. “Excuse me,” I said plainly.

Now, I am hiding in the powder room, the bottled-up feelings hanging over me thick and heavy as a storm cloud. Eden should acknowledge her hypocrisy when her entire career plays on women’s body-image issues by forcing pseudoscience wellness crap down their throats. What does she care if I’m desperate enough, after years of trying, to want an astrologer to tell me I’m going to have a baby?

“If you’d acknowledge your entitlement, it could free you,” I say, mocking Eden.

You’re mistaking my desire for something else.

Entitled.

You’re mistaking my calm for something else.

Entitled.

I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself anymore. All that emotion is disgusting. I flush the toilet and run the water in case anyone is listening. My anger and hurt does not drain with it.

I want to go out there and tell Eden that entitled people don’t work this hard. They just expect the result they want. They don’t track every single day of their cycles. In the last five years, I’ve read more articles than I did in law school, educating myself on best practices. I want a baby so much, and I am willing to do anything to make it happen.

That is so far from entitled. She has no idea.

Next to the sink, I spot a hand towel dotted with fuchsia, ecru, and lavender impatiens. I hate it. I hate its pretty, happy flowers and its perfect folds.

I shove the dainty rectangle in my mouth, bite down as hard as I can, and scream.

STARS HARBOR ASTROLOGICAL RETREAT