by Amira Rain
However, Ryan Wallace was a man who carried the wolf shifter gene and this meant that any child they produced would likely carry the shifter gene also.
Julia knew she wanted to become a mother and with the world the way it was, she knew she would probably never get a better opportunity.
But could she really carry the spawn of a wolf? Could the wolf baby even survive inside her?
One thing was for sure and that was that Julia was about to discover what motherhood was really all about in more ways than one...
CHAPTER ONE
Just move your hand and do it, I told myself. Just extend your damned hand, Julia, and drop the damned envelope in the damned slot. Just take a chance for once in your life. Just drop the envelope. It’s that easy.
Except that it wasn’t. I’d been parked next to the large, blue, public mailbox in the strip mall parking lot for at least two minutes, extending the manila envelope out of my car window, getting it close to the drop slot, but then pulling it back in to look at it, frowning. I’d done this several times.
The envelope contained my application to be a “population growth partner” for the shifter wolves “way up north,” as many people from Michigan still called the territory that had formerly been the Upper Peninsula, or U.P. Now the territory was divided into the Free Dragon State, where the dragon shifters lived; Greenwood, where the bear shifters lived; and some newish sovereign territory called Denton, where the wolf shifters lived. It was to a village in Denton called Briarwood that I was sending my envelope.
Muttering, I scanned the postage and the address I’d written on the front for about the tenth time. “’Population growth partner.’ What a funny thing to call it, anyway.”
What a “population growth partner” was supposed to be was a woman who’d marry a wolf shifter in Denton in the hopes of having a child or children with him in an effort to populate the new territory. This was needed because apparently, seemingly just by chance, the majority of the American men who’d been turned into wolf shifters several years after the germ weapon had been released had been single and childless at the time, and most still remained so. And now, about a year after Denton had been established, it seemed these men were so eager to start families that they’d resorted to soliciting American women to help them do exactly this. They couldn’t pull women from the FDS or Greenwood, because most of those women were already married and already contributing to their own territories’ population growth.
It had been an internet ad about a week earlier that had first caught my attention. Neon green letters against a navy blue background in a box on one side of a local news website had spelled out a teaser so intriguing and mystifying that I’d read it twice. Are you a healthy, single woman of childbearing age? Are you ready for family life and a baby? Would you like to raise a child in the picturesque, natural beauty of the sovereign territory of Denton? Click here to find out more!
I’d clicked on the ad, even though I’d never clicked on an internet ad in my life before, and it had taken me to a bare-bones website simply stating what the “deal” was. In exchange for marrying a wolf shifter and doing what was necessary to conceive a child, a woman would be able to “enjoy living in an attractive, spacious home with all living expenses paid,” and she would also be able to enjoy “raising a child or children amidst beautiful surroundings in a tight-knit community.” The marriage part of the “deal” was mandatory, because the “community leadership” felt it was best that children be raised by both of their parents, and that both parents be “committed to family life” in an effort to “build a strong community.” However, it was stated that “clear communication and mutual respect” were to be the “strived-for interpersonal goals” of these marriages. It was implied that love within these marriages was optional. That sounded fine to me. I liked that there didn’t seem to be any pressure in regards to that.
What sounded more than fine to me was the likelihood of a child of mine being born perfectly healthy, as the website pointed out that the children of wolf shifter fathers likely would be. Ever since the germ weapon had been released years earlier, children born to fully-human parents in North America had higher-than-average rates of illness, although this wasn’t the case for children of dragon shifter and bear shifter fathers. It only stood to reason that children of wolf shifter fathers would enjoy the same general robust health as well.
The website said a few other things, such as that the “population growth partner arrangements” and the “safety, well-being, personal freedom, and liberty of all women involved” were guaranteed by the governments of the FDS, Greenwood, Denton, and Canada. It provided links to documents from these countries attesting to this, which I definitely appreciated. There were also government phone numbers and a number to reach Canadian law enforcement listed in case a woman wanted to speak to someone on the phone for assurance of her “safety, well-being, personal freedom, and liberty,” which I definitely appreciated as well. Although everything I’d seen up to this point had seemed on the up-and-up anyway, it was nice to have assurance that “population growth partner” wasn’t just code for “imprisoned sex slave” or something horrible like that.
The website had an email address for further info or questions, but I didn’t have any. In fact, I was just about ready to pack my bags and head to Denton right then.
I wanted a baby more than anything. I’d wanted a baby of my own ever since I’d been old enough to hold dolls. I also wanted a traditional family life, with a working husband, a nice home, and the ability to stay at home with my children to raise them full-time myself. This lifelong desire of mine had only gotten stronger in the previous six months or so, ever since I’d turned twenty-seven. In fact, some days, it was nearly all I could think about.
There was just one problem, though. I was single, “very single,” as Kim, one of my friends, not-so-helpfully reminded me sometimes. I hadn’t even really dated in about a year, other than one time meeting my boss’s handsome cousin for a cup of coffee followed by lunch at an upscale bistro, but it hadn’t been a match for me. Dave, who’d driven a cherry-red Ferrari, had done little else but talk about himself, only asking me maybe two questions the entire time, one of which was if I’d have dinner with him that evening. I’d politely declined, saying that unfortunately, I already had plans, which wasn’t true at all. When he’d texted the following weekend, again asking if I’d have dinner with him, I’d again politely declined, and he seemed to have gotten the hint, not contacting me again. After him, I’d begun politely declining all “setup” offers from coworkers and friends.
It definitely wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to find a boyfriend the previous few years; it was just that I had a “pickiness problem,” as Kim sometimes said. She also sometimes said I had a “giving-up-too-easily problem,” and I had to concede that maybe I did. However, after numerous disastrous dates during my twenties and two serious relationships that ultimately hadn’t worked out, I couldn’t help but feel a little discouraged.
It was probably my own fault. Each of my serious boyfriends had proposed marriage within a year, but each time, despite the fact that I wanted marriage and a family badly, and despite the fact that I’d been pretty sure that I loved each of my two boyfriends, I just hadn’t been able to say yes. This was mainly because with each of these boyfriends, whenever I thought about “forever,” instead of feeling a deep sense of happiness, I just felt vaguely queasy. “Too picky,” Kim had said after my second breakup. “One of these days, you’re going to have to break out of that safe, little bubble you keep yourself in and just take a chance. Unless the only kind of children you ever want are cat children, that is.”
Intellectually, I knew she was right. I wasn’t great at taking chances. I wasn’t great at making leaps of faith, fingers crossed tightly. I felt like I should get better at these things. However, at the same time, in my gut, I felt like I should continue waiting like I had been. Although waiting for who or what, I didn’t know. Maybe a man who
made my heart race each time I saw him. Maybe a man I dreamed about when he wasn’t with me. With each of my two serious boyfriends, I’d been kind of disturbed to realize that they were very “out of sight, out of mind” to me. Now, I felt like, if nothing else, I should at least wait until a man proposed marriage to me and it didn’t immediately make me feel sick to my stomach.
I knew I couldn’t wait forever, though, and that within a few years, I’d be moving into a stage of my life where achieving pregnancy would likely be more difficult than it would be during my twenties. Within a decade, I’d be moving into a stage of my life where achieving pregnancy without medical help might even be impossible. And maybe it wouldn’t be, I knew, but I’d read all the stats about declining fertility as it related to advancing age. I’d also read about older mothers being more likely to give birth to babies with health problems. In short, as unpleasant as it was to think about, I knew there was a ticking clock inside my body.
This was precisely why the prospect of becoming a “population growth partner” was so appealing. Also, for some strange reason, I found the idea of a “marriage of convenience” somehow surprisingly appealing as well, or maybe comforting was a better word, even though I’d always dreamed of having a loving, passionate marriage. It just seemed like a “marriage of convenience” took some sort of pressure off somehow. It wouldn’t matter if my heart didn’t race when I was around my husband because it wasn’t necessarily supposed to in such a marriage. It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t miss him when he was gone. All that would matter was that we’d be compatible enough to raise a child, or several, together. Although the idea of a “marriage of convenience” had deeply bothered me when I’d thought of it in regards to my two serious boyfriends, it just didn’t bother me anymore, not now that it was clearly spelled out that that’s what was being offered. And besides, maybe Kim was right. Maybe I just needed to take a chance for once in my life. After all, the idea of never becoming a mom was just about inconceivable to me, whereas I figured a loveless marriage was probably something I could learn to live with. Maybe I’d even like it. I’d be able to spend all of my mental and emotional energy on the kids.
After reading everything on the website in its entirety for a second time, and becoming increasingly excited and hopeful, I quickly printed the application forms, which were numerous, before I had the chance to second-guess myself or change my mind. Then, I began rapidly filling out the forms, reminding myself that the website had clearly stated that not even a fraction of the women who applied to be a “population growth partner” would be chosen to receive an invitation to Denton. It was entirely possible that all of my hope and excitement might come to nothing. In fact, the website stated that as of a date just a few days earlier, the “Denton population growth partner selection committee” had received “several thousand applications,” and there were only “two hundred or so” growth partner positions available. Also, if I wanted a chance at one of them, I was going to have to be fast. The committee would only be considering applications postmarked by a date three days in the future, and between the present and then, I was going to have to accomplish a visit to my gynecologist—no small feat since she was usually booked up for weeks when it came to routine visits. I’d just have to beg my way into an appointment, I supposed, since the committee required a form to be filled out by either a gynecologist or a certified nurse midwife, stating that the woman applying to be a growth partner was in general good health as of the date of the application and had no known gynecological problems that might prevent pregnancy.
The first page of the numerous forms I had to fill out myself was pretty unremarkable, just asking for a full name, mailing and email addresses, and phone number, although several lines at the top struck me as maybe just a bit unusual. The first few said to fill out the forms in pen or pencil, then mail all forms to the selection committee at an address in Briarwood, Denton, no faxing or emailing allowed, because “viewing an applicant’s handwriting is very important to the selection committee.” I wondered why this might be, hoping that handwriting wouldn’t be a huge factor in their decision-making. Although I’d often been told that my handwriting, whether in cursive or print, was “quirky,” “unusual,” and even “cool,” I’d always hated it. I’d once described it to a friend as “the handwriting of an insane toddler,” which had made my friend laugh uproariously, although I hadn’t been meaning to make a joke, only describe my handwriting accurately. With loops ranging from teeny-tiny to huge, depending on the letter; a few lowercase letters that always resembled letters in the Cyrillic alphabet no matter what I did; and a general style of alternating timidity and bombast, my handwriting definitely wasn’t elegant, despite the fact that I’d tried all my life to make it so. I planned to fill out the forms as neatly as I was able to, and I could only hope that unusual was what the selection committee was looking for, not beauty or artistry.
Below the line about it being important for the committee to view an applicant’s handwriting, there were a few more lines.
Please fill out the forms completely and, above all else, *honestly*. If you don’t, the selection committee will know, and your application will be discarded. Thank you.
I figured that some instances of dishonesty, like maybe a woman trying to impress by saying that she’d been Miss America when she hadn’t been, could be pretty easily found out by the selection committee. All they’d have to do would be a little internet fact-checking. I figured it would probably be similarly easy to uncover deception in regards to things like employment and education. However, I wasn’t sure how the committee was so certain they’d be able to detect more “private” deception, like a person lying about personal preferences or grossly exaggerating positive characteristics of their own personality. At any rate, this wasn’t something that concerned me anyway, since I planned to be completely honest in my application.
However, once I’d filled out the name, address, and phone number portion of the form and had tucked that paper behind the rest to look at the second page, I found that being completely honest was going to be an unexpectedly emotional task. Above nearly a full sheet of paper to write a response, there was basically only one question: Who, in your life, makes you cry? If no one currently, who has made you cry in the past? Please explain. Use the back of the paper or additional sheet(s) of paper if needed. I hadn’t expected the first real question of the form to be so odd. I hadn’t expected I’d pretty much have to lay my soul bare. Still hopeful and excited about the prospect of having a child, though, I began writing my response anyway, trying to make my handwriting as non-weird and legible as possible.
My mom makes me cry. She used to all the time in the past when I was growing up, and now that I’m twenty-seven, she still does occasionally, even though she’s all the way down in Florida now, where she moved to expand her multi-million dollar real-estate empire. I’m her only child, and we’re each other’s last living relatives. I answer her calls maybe twice a year, and I visit every other Christmas. “Diamond Debbie Watson” is what she advertises herself as, and this is what’s printed on her billboards and business cards. Her first name isn’t Diamond, and it’s not even a nickname. I guess she just likes people mentally associating her with diamonds and luxury because the homes she sells are palatial mega-mansions for the obscenely rich. She lives in one of these mega-mansions herself, and last Christmas, I literally got lost on the ground floor during a Christmas party she was having for 150 guests. When I finally found my way back to the 4000-square-foot “entertaining room,” my mom called me a “little dummy” in front of a state senator and his wife, although not because I’d gotten lost. I didn’t tell my mom that. She called me a “little dummy” because I commented on how delicious the “foie gras” was, just for something to say, and it was actually chicken liver pate. Later that evening, she introduced me to a famous pop star as her “very unambitious daughter, Julia.” She later added that I “still” work as a “babysitter,” despite the fact that I ac
tually work as a teaching assistant in a special education classroom, which can be a very demanding job at times. My mom definitely made me cry on the night of this party, though I waited to do it until I was alone.
I paused, thinking I’d probably written plenty, but after a few moments, I realized that I actually wanted to write more and set pen to paper once again, drawing an arrow, flipping the paper, and starting a new paragraph.
My mom has always been hyper-focused on her career, for as far back as I can remember, but that’s not why I resent her. I think any woman, whether a mother or not, should be able to have a career if she likes and be as focused on it as she likes. The reason I resent my mom is because she’s always seemed to love her career far more than she loves me. She’s also always shamed me for wanting to work as a homemaker one day, for wanting to stay home to raise my kids. She says a woman staying home with her kids is for “a loser woman who can’t hack it with the big boys out in the real world.” And, yes, these are her words verbatim. I’ve heard them plenty of times.
I paused again, thinking for a few moments, before starting a new paragraph.
I don’t mean to make it sound like my mom is entirely without love, because she’s not. She has her occasional sweet little moments, and she always ends our phone calls by saying she loves me, even if we’ve spent the entire call arguing. She also sends me a single pink rose every year on the anniversary of my dad’s death. It’s supposed to symbolize how much he loved me. He was in his mid-forties when my mom married him at age twenty-one, and he died of a sudden, massive heart attack when I was eight months old. The doctors said it was probably a combination of his workaholic ways as an attorney and his horrible cocaine addiction.
Realizing I’d gotten way off-track, I paused briefly and then started a new paragraph.
In short, my mom has taught me an important life lesson, which is that most people aren’t completely “all bad” or “all good.” But nonetheless, she’s made me cry more than anyone else in my life, and she probably always will make me cry occasionally, even though I’ve learned that when it comes to my mom, distance and boundaries for my own emotional protection are my best friends.
