Three years of waiting. Everywhere around us there are waves of bouncing sons, bounties of daughters, stroller wheels creaking under the cheerful load. Facebook updates, email messages, and Christmas cards arrive with pictures of tots, their faces smeared with avocado or cake frosting. Babies on rugs, babies in hats. Invitations to baby showers with cursive script and cartoon storks. Over a beer an expectant father—another expectant father—gives me the news, tells me that his wife will soon have her second or third. Am I happy for him? What else can I be? Once again I put out my hand, close my eyes, and wish them joy.

Every day at least once our cat Desdemona, a pretty green-eyed cat, carries a pair of clean socks in her mouth as if the pair of socks was a kitten. Then she drops them to the floor and yowls in anguish, as if she is dying. She looks at me and yowls some more. I go to her and stroke her ears and say, “I know, sweetie.” Sometimes we come home and find three or four pairs, three or four sock babies, scattered around the house.

One of the best personal essays I’ve read all year.