I met you in the elevator on my way back from the pediatrician’s office. It was just me and Wren, and you looked at her fondly in her stroller. When the elevator doors opened, you very kindly held the doors open for me. As I clumsily maneuvered the stroller past you, I accidentally ran over your foot. “Don’t worry about it,” you assured me over my profuse apologies. “I have three children myself,” you revealed to me. My eyes traveled to your big belly. There was an awkward pause as I wondered if I could assume you were pregnant. “And I’m expecting my fourth,” you admitted. “Congratulations!,” I told you. “That is wonderful!” I saw the relief spread across your face. “Thank you!” you said, and I could tell you meant it. “You have no idea how many people offer their condolences when they find out this is my fourth. Or they ask me if this was planned.” “How rude of them,” I replied. “All children are a blessing.”
As we parted ways, I felt an immense sorrow for what our society has become. When did having a large family become equivalent to a tragic event?
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