Orphan Day is always on Tuesday. It falls that way purposefully, a mayor-designated holiday announced on town posters hung by zealous librarians and the bowling pin setter at Ed’s Bowl-O-Rama. I contemplate eating my own young, hiding them in my gut, a Jonah-eating whale matriarch — except that only works for Biblical characters. Instead, to protect them from hunters, I trophy stuff all my babies, patched-together fabric mannequin children no one will want to adopt. I’m allowed to visit once a week. I leave my face imprinted in mommy mirror smudges, watching as they’re cradled on couches and cushions by other-mothers.