2014 1. San Diego I’m a good liar. I take comfort in that fact as Aidan and I sit next to each other on our leather sectional, so close together that our thighs touch. I wonder if that’s too close. Patti, the social worker sitting on the other wing of our sectional, writes something in her notes, and with every scribble of her pen, I worry her words will cost us our baby. I imagine she’s writing The couple appears to be codependent to an unhealthy degree. As if picking up on my nervousness, Aidan takes my hand, squeezing it against his warm palm. How can he be so calm? “You’re both thirty-eight, is that right?” Patti asks. We nod in unison. Patti isn’t at all what I expected. In my mind I’ve dubbed her “Perky Patti.” I’d expected someone dour, older, judgmental. She’s a licensed social worker, but she can’t be any older than twenty-five. Her blond hair is in a ponytail, her blue eyes are huge, and her eyelashes look like something out of an advertisement in Vogue.
