If you could predict what you’d contract, would you?

She asks would I want to know? I was pre-disposed, would end up with an auto-immune inevitably, a blunt knife best at scraping the cheese slice off its plastic wrapper when it’s stuck, but never getting all.

She says, “Shouldn’t you, like, for your kids’ sake, the ones you don’t have or you do?” I tell her no but it’s not enough, like a one size fits 50 Bible verse supposed to quash doubts about all the stuff that seems alright but every voice in church says WRONG.

I explain that life’s lucky dip-ness is the only thing going for it, that without a Poundland surprise, someone buying drinks you didn’t ask for, a person changing everything, inexplicably, sort of mind-blowingly at a worst time possible, days would outright suck.

But her, she wants to know, wants the test, result, an indication upfront of what she’ll be at 40. But I’ve lived limbo. I barely loved a second. But I don’t need to know I’ll get a detrimental brain disease anymore than whether I’ll know you next week or in August. The things I picked out for your birthday? You can have them. I’ve got what I’ve got forever. And you’re an appendix.

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