It hasn’t been all happy selfies and late-night talks over bottles of wine. We have different parenting styles and didn’t always agree on how much to tell the kids, or what language to use (brother and sister? donor sibling? special friend?), especially given the varied ages of our brood (two to nine, at our first big reunion). There was a long stretch when I couldn’t shake the feeling that Emily, earth mother extraordinaire—seriously, she makes her own almond butter—was kind of passive aggressive and judge-y. When Gabi and I moved from New York to Florida, in part so we could be closer to Emily and Dana’s crew, we saw even less of them than in previous years. What the hell? I felt ignored and unwelcome.

I soon recognized these things for what they were—typical family tiffs, rifts and misunderstandings. When it came to the important stuff, we were there for each other. When I faced a series of agonizing spinal surgeries, the moms chipped in to fly Gabi to spend time with her siblings. And soon after our move, when hurricanes Irma and Dorian threatened Florida, we evacuated to Emily’s home in Atlanta.

Granted, this choice may not be right for everyone. I know not all donor-related parents bond the way we have. Maybe it’s because we’re all women—having dads in the mix might’ve complicated matters. The donor sibs also bear a strong resemblance to each other, which isn’t true for all such families. I found it impossible to feel nothing for these kids who look just like mine—I felt a primal tug, and that feeling seems to have extended to their moms, too. We were also each firmly committed to giving our children the gift of knowing each other. If they didn’t enjoy each other’s company—fine. The children could opt out. But at least they’d have a choice.

So far, they’ve opted in. They’re not all best friends, but they seem to enjoy a sense of solidarity. Gabi hears from her siblings regularly. Two of them attended summer camp together. “Do you really have nine brothers and sisters?” one of the other campers asked. “Yeah,” they said, and shrugged.

I have no idea what the future holds. After spending three-and-a-half hours with my daughter on lockdown in a suburban mall, I’m not sure I want to know. The reports of an “active shooter” turned out to be a false alarm but I left feeling shaky and yet incredibly blessed. Emily’s texts kept me informed and grounded, and the other moms’ check-ins after I got home helped soothe my frayed nerves.

I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think we’re crazy to pursue this experiment. I like to believe the stars were aligned when each of us chose Donor 527. Biology connects the children, but fate brought us mothers together. The one thing I know for certain is that I couldn’t have hand-picked a better group to call family.

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