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There’s a monster under my bed. Its cries wake me in the middle of the night. It stalks my days, perched in the recesses of my life—my fervent companion. The Whawoulda never waivers in its quest to replace my hopes with doubt.

What would have been? What might have happened? Maybe if we hadn’t waited so long. Maybe if I hadn’t waited for the right man. I could have been like some women I know, who poked holes in their contraception or failed to take a pill here and there. Then—oops—get ready for baby. But, I wasn’t. And those other thoughts that cloud my mind will never be, so I cannot know if any of it would have made a difference and placed me on a different journey. (And, if a different journey, at what cost might it have been?)

Then, unexpectedly, my life intercepts that of an ex and—guess what—he has children. Would it have been different with him? The Whawoulda strikes again, pointlessly gnawing at my past like the putrid beast it is. I kick at it wildly. Leave me the hell alone! That’s all I really can do. Logic is lost on it.

While I fear I will be straddled with it the rest of my life, I am more afraid of its cousin. The Blamevaone. Its quest is rot with evil. Given the chance, it will steal your soul. Beware, infertiles, not all monsters go bump in the night.