The parents sit at their beautiful acrylic dining table, a wide assortment of breakfast foods spread out in front of them. She spoon-feeds their toddler, a quiet youngster with a mop of curly black hair. In the corner, a maid dusts a shelf.
“This parenting stuff isn’t so bad,” he says, looking around at their immaculate apartment. “From how everyone was talking about it, I was expecting worse.”
His wife nods absently in agreement. She’s looking at her phone while trying to coax a spoonful of applesauce into a skeptical mouth.
He continues. “I’ve been thinking. I think it’s time for us to have another.”
She looks up from her phone. “The surrogate was expensive. I don’t know if we can afford it.”
“I’ve been doing some research,” he says, “and it’d be cheaper if we went artificial. Now that we’ve done biological once, I think it’s ok.”
She thinks for a minute, looking at the baby. “I guess so.”
“Great.” He pulls out his phone, pulls up an app. A few taps, a few swipes, a scant few seconds keying in information.
He double-clicks the side button to pay. FaceID pops up. A jingle plays.
“Ok, done.” He puts down the phone, but after a second it chimes. “Ah, right,” he says, “I forgot, artificial womb and all that. One last question.” He continues, but she’s stopped paying him attention. “When do you want its birthday to be?”
“Oh, any name’s fine,” she mumbles, mistaking the question. “I like June.”
“June it is.”