The elevator is cramped. It accommodates three individuals with walkers barely fitting alongside two caregivers, as long as no one carries a bag and everyone doesn’t mind a little closeness. My growing belly, a rare sight in this neighborhood, makes today’s ride even tighter.
Silence envelops us as we ascend together.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” one of the caregivers inquires.
A pregnant woman quickly learns to expect questions like these, much like one anticipates a change in the weather.
“We don’t know yet,” I reply, smiling.
“What do you hope for?” she asks.
Just as I’m about to elaborate on already having a daughter and the merits of either gender for my second, a woman in her 90s interjects, “Does she get a say? No, she doesn’t. Whatever the baby is, she’ll love it. Right?”