Every June, the same script runs. Cards for dad. Posts about the man who taught you to ride a bike. Brunches and ties and “world’s best father” mugs. And somewhere in the middle of all of it sits a woman who did every single one of those things alone, watching…
Let me start with the basics. I am a woman. Born a woman. And by biology, that means I came equipped with ovaries and reproductive eggs, patiently waiting for a single sperm to show up after what is, let’s be honest, often a two-minute main sex event. Nine months of…
