I was five or six months along in my first pregnancy when a co-worker, Patti, divulged her past to me. Standing there near her desk in the small insurance agency, we were talking about babies and the joy of parenthood when she shared her story of loss.
For all appearances, Patti was the proud mother of an only son. Pictures of him decorated her desk and stories of his latest basketball achievements were regular topics of conversation around the water cooler. But on this day, she told me about her other child, the one missing from all those snapshots. Little Richard was not really an only child, he’d had a sister born into the world, but due to complications her time on earth had been short lived.
Listening to the details, I felt shocked and overwhelmed and then a bit put-off. Why, I wondered, would my co-worker saddle me with her sad history?
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