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days I get up and feel so completely helpless—and hopeless—that I’m not even sure I can go on. But I do.
    Like this weekend. I was certain I couldn’t possibly pull it together to come, yet here I am. I suppose it was the promise of a baby-sitter (provided by David’s parents) that finally lured me here. Of course, this baby-sitter is hired to watch Amy only during scheduled activities. The rest of the time she is mine, all mine.
    So despite my little “breaks,” it still feels like a slow and hideous form of torture to be stuck with these people. Everyone is focused on money, careers, success, designer clothes, expensivecars, dream vacations—it’s like being on another planet. Well, except perhaps for Jennifer’s grandmother. I suspect she’s an earth-ling, and she actually seems fairly well grounded. On a good day I might even like her. I suppose this should give me some hope about my sister-in-law-to-be. But I have to admit, my first impression was that she’s little Miss Perfect. And who else would be good enough for Michael Fairbanks—heir to the throne that my David declined?
    Okay, maybe she’s not as bad as I thought. I look up at the head table to see her smiling for the photographer. There’s no denying that she’s exceptionally pretty. The Fairbankses must be pleased at such a prize. At the moment David is standing next to his brother, the happy groom, but you’d hardly know the two were related. Michael is a tall, blue-eyed blond, just like his mother, whereas David is a little shorter and stouter and dark enough to pass as Italian (just like his maternal grandfather, I’ve been told). David is grinning and, I suspect, cracking lame jokes that Michael is, I suspect, pretending to laugh at.
    It’s hard to believe this was David and me only three years ago. Can that be? Certainly our wedding wasn’t anything as grand as this. Despite the pressure from David’s parents to go all out, we opted for a simple wedding in my family’s church. I’m sure David’s mother still hasn’t forgiven me for having our reception in the church basement. But David and I believed we should focus more on the marriage than the wedding. After all, a wedding lasts a day, but a marriage is supposed to last a lifetime—right?
    Oh my, sometimes I wonder if I can last that long. Right now I am so tired I can’t imagine making it through this long, wearying day only to end up having to get Amy to sleep in that flimsy portacrib that’s set up in our room. Last night it squeaked and creaked, keeping both Amy and me mostly awake. When I’d barely drift off to sleep, it would be time to get up and nurse her again, and again, and again. Amy still eats every two hours at night. It’s thoroughly exhausting.
    I gaze at the wedding party members. They all look so fresh and lovely, every hair in place. I, on the other hand, feel wilted and faded and tired and old—and I’m only twenty-seven. Oh, how I wish I were anywhere but here.
    “Do you plan on having other children?” asks Mrs. Simpson.
    At first I assume she’s just been making polite small talk, taking pity on me since I’m sitting here pretty much by myself after a couple of the other women from our table made a quick exit. But when I look at her more closely, I see kindness in her eyes, and I sense she’s actually interested.
    “We always thought we’d have more children,” I admit. “But right now it doesn’t sound terribly appealing to me.”
    She nods. “It’s always hardest with the first one. So many new things to learn, and you want to do everything just right. But, trust me, it gets much easier with the second one.” She smiles, as if remembering. “And by the time the third one comes, why, it’s old hat, like rolling off a log.”
    “You mean, instead of having the log rolling onto you?”
    She laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it seems like that to you now.”
    I sigh again. “I just wonder when I’ll stop feeling so tired.”
    “Are you