Daniel, that’s my ass above your mother’s mantle. Yes, dearest, there it is, peeking out of that pea pod. Your mom noticed me staring at it. “Oh, we just love her,” she said. Of course you do. They’re everywhere: babies in flower pots on the end tables, sleepy human/rabbit hybrids on the bookcase, and a set of commemorative plates in the china hutch. The calendar in your kitchen. The coffee table book. Me again on the wall of your powder room, one in a field of sunflower babies.

So now you know.

I know most of these kids. You’ve met cantankerous teapot baby; she’s the hedge fund manager we had dinner with last month. We didn’t really meet in yoga. You might remember Jack, the giggling rosebud baby? I did a little pro-bono work for him last month after he got arrested for public drunkenness. I know you asked why I was volunteering my time for “that loser.” Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought. We’re just friends, but thanks for your vote of confidence.

I don’t think I can do this. I love you. Maybe not enough, though.

You’ve always wondered why I avoid Hallmark stores and calendar stands with such gusto. Well, dearest, that’s where the super-fans hang out. Your mother has nothing on them. They know who I am, Daniel! Totally out of context. Once, a man offered me three thousand dollars to pose for a “where are they now” version of the pea pod shot!

Please don’t touch me right now. I saw you. You, Daniel! Sitting on the couch over there, happily thumbing through the coffee table book. You’re one of them. What’s next? My friend Charlie, the orthodontist, shoved in a red velvet stocking on my Christmas card? My first boyfriend on our engagement announcements? I won’t let her into my life anymore! That woman has done enough to me.

Excuse me? She “just loves children?” Don’t you defend her—he routinely stuffs babies into flowerpots. That’s not love.

And what about our future children? I can’t win in a fight against two grandmothers who want to see my kid curled up in a tulip. I won’t have that. No, no this can never work. I won’t let her ruin my life anymore.

I’m sorry but this is goodbye, darling. You’ve got your commemorative afghan to keep you warm at night.