The elevator is cramped. It accommodates three individuals with walkers, along with two aides, provided no one is carrying bags and everyone is comfortable with close proximity. My pregnant belly, a rare sight in this setting, adds to the tightness of the space.
A quiet ride ensues as we ascend together.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” one aide inquires.
A pregnant woman quickly adapts to such questions, as if discussing the weather.
“We’re not sure yet,” I reply with a smile.
“And what do you hope for?” she asks.
Just as I prepare to elaborate on my hopes of having a second child, one of the elderly women in the elevator, in her 90s, interjects: “Does she really have a choice? No, she doesn’t. She’ll love that baby no matter what it is. Right?”