November 1, 2026 — 5:00am

I still remember the exact street I was walking down in Elwood, Victoria, when I took a deep breath and tapped Ali’s* number, preparing to make the call I’d been dreading. I was due to meet her for dinner and drinks that evening – only this time, I wouldn’t be splitting a bottle of chardonnay. I was joyfully – albeit a little guiltily – 13 weeks pregnant.

For the previous 18 months, Ali had been a vital source of support. Though further along the quest for a baby than me, together we’d lamented our empty wombs over wines and beach walks. She’d seen me sob after a miscarriage and swing between plans to invest in IVF and book flights to India, to seek a different kind of fulfilment, if kids weren’t on my bingo card.

While many of my friends had fallen pregnant easily, having friends whose path to parenthood had been rocky was perversely reassuring.…