it must be so hard for you, she said, to reach old age, never having had children. she spoke with the thoughtless arrogance of some whose offspring live.
most—maybe all—of mine are dead; but never mind me. what of those who've held their dying children in their arms, or worse, had them torn away and k**ed before their eyes? the ones who came home to find that home was a bombed-out crater, no trace, perhaps, but a broken pram to mark where their child has gone? the parent of a child disappeared into the streets, never seen or heard from again—that's not worse than never having had a child? how do they feel years later, as they listen to the elderly braggarts who talk nothing but their daughter this, their son that, no thought for the feeling of their auditor? unkindly, one could almost wish they tempted fate; but no parent should have to bury their child.
she gaped at me, finally speechless. I couldn't tell from horror, the sting of my reproof or sheer disbelief. she wore an expression I suspect crossed my face, when she made her sister call to say she'd terminated our pregnancy. she'd forgotten about that. until now. and then I think she understood me better