One day, after she had turned forty, Joan Brady realized she was on her own. No husband. No kids. She felt like someone had lobbed a hand grenade into her heart. At other people's baby showers, she thought she'd explode. The end of her childbearing years loomed like a tidal wave on the horizon, reminding her that she was not now, and never would be, a mother. She could sink, or she could swim. In characteristic style, Joan let herself hit bottom - only to emerge incredibly joyous, bountiful, and awed by a sense of peace she could never have predicted. Like having a long conversation with a very good friend, this is a letter of rapture and affirmation for all women who have not traveled the path to the delivery room, but have instead discovered a magical route of their own. A rare and wonderful gift that rejoices in being whole, female, and happy, this is Joan Brady's statement of celebration.
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