This piece was originally published in Tablet.

The embryos from which my son and daughter grew look like minuscule gray suns. I have pictures of them on my phone: tight clusters of cells with pale shells around them. The darkest parts, where the cells overlap, are dusty pink. My son’s shell is shaped like an ellipsis. My daughter’s is round. I can’t help but see them in the shapes: My son is pulled between extremes; my daughter, centered.

I read once that some parents have watercolors of their kids’ embryos made and then hang them in their bedrooms, which seems like a lot to impose on a kid, but I get it: On an existential level, and even an aesthetic one, embryos are beautiful.