The Baby Maker's Club

By: Penny Wylder

“Kate,” the receptionist calls, “Mosaic is ready to see you now.”

She leads me through a multitude of hallways until we reach an opulent office with a stunning view of the city. I’m served cucumber water and asked to wait until Mosaic arrives. I look around at all the expensive leather furniture and the crystal chandelier dangling over my head. On the walls are framed pictures of chubby, smiling babies. I assume those are Mosaic’s success stories. A little excitement brews inside me, but I try to tamp it down because I’m certain I can’t afford anything that they will offer me.

The door opens and a severe-looking woman walks through it. She’s older—in her fifties, maybe—with a blunt bob haircut and a gray striped skirt-suit. Her wrists and ears sparkle with diamonds and her heels have the trademark red soles of Christian Louboutin. She looks at me with a sharp, steady gaze and smiles.

With every step, her heels clack on the floor as she approaches me. It sounds like confidence.

Her smile is friendly enough, but I can tell she is the kind of woman who is all business. “Hello, Kate. I’m Mosaic. It’s nice to meet you.”

She shakes my hand with an iron grip. “Nice to meet you too,” I say.

She sits behind an imposing desk, and it’s the first time I notice she’s just a little thing. The air of confidence that envelops her makes her seem more formidable than she is.

“So, you’d like to have a baby,” she says, her voice much friendlier when she says this. “You’ve come to the right place. I’d like to explain some of our rules before we get into the rest of what we do here.”

She goes on to explain that the main condition of using her services is total anonymity. I can use an alias if I wish, or my real first name. The men can do the same. But under no circumstances should we use last names, or go looking for information about each other. If this rule is ever broken, I’ll be kicked out of the club. She also states that her team of lawyers won’t hesitate to sue me for breaching this contract.

I swallow hard. Not that I plan to break any of the rules, but just the threat of it makes my palms start to sweat.

She continues. “Now, this final rule is very important and must be heeded.” She pauses for emphasis. “You are absolutely never permitted to fall in love. And if, for someone reason that happens during the process, you are never to act on it. Your relationship with your donor is exclusive to this club. No outside contact.”

I giggle at that, because who could possibly fall in love with someone in such a clinical setting? It would be like getting turned on during a pap-smear. No. Not going to happen.

Mosaic doesn’t laugh, though. She doesn’t seem to think there is anything remotely entertaining about it.

I stifle my laughter and clear my throat.

“This club is for women who have shrugged off the constricting labels of what’s expected of them. They’re able to have children without the drama and stress of conventional relationships. This is isn’t a dating service or high-price escort company. These rules are important for my reputation and the future of this business model. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I say.

I do understand and it sounds amazing. Exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve tried the old-fashioned way and look where it’s gotten me: single and alone. Mosaic is offering me a chance to have a baby. I wouldn’t ever betray her confidence.

“What do the men get out of it?” I ask.

Mosaic smiles. The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her yet. She leans back in her chair and looks relaxed for the first time as well. “Men are men. They get to fuck freely and have no repercussions. But trust me, we don’t let just anyone into our club. It’s elite. We’re very picky about that. They are vetted thoroughly. Their sperm is tested for vitality and numbers. Whichever man is chosen for you will no doubt give you the results you’re looking for.”

It all sounds so wonderfully perfect. But there’s just one thing …

I start to fidget, and Mosaic, with those sharp eyes, doesn’t miss a thing. “Is there something wrong?”

“No—well, not really. It’s just that I’m not a wealthy person. I have a good job, but all of this,” I say, waving my hand around at the expensive building and all its fancy furnishings, “might be out of my budget.”

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