We flew home the next day, and had a layover in Barcelona. Spain had just won the World Cup that summer, so the airport shops were full of national team t-shirts, soccer balls, and stuffed toys bearing the team logo. I wanted to buy one of everything, in infant sizes, for our baby who I was sure was on the way. Paolo restrained me, though I did insist on buying a soccer ball for our future son or daughter to kick around. I didn’t know whether I was calling on some positive energy from the universe or setting us up for defeat. But somehow, I had to believe that we were pregnant—or at least almost pregnant—and buying a toy for a baby we weren’t yet sure we were having felt like an optimistic, affirming gesture. I had to believe, and though he was less effusive than I, Paolo had to believe, too. And now all we could do was wait.