The elevator is cramped, accommodating only three people with walkers placed just right, plus a couple of home attendants—unless someone has a bag or minds a little close contact. With my pregnant belly, a rare sight in this area, today’s ride feels even tighter.
A hush surrounds us as we ascend.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” one of the attendants inquires.
Pregnant women quickly learn to handle such questions as if discussing the weather.
“We don’t know yet,” I reply with a smile.
“What do you hope for?” she asks.
Just as I’m about to elaborate on my existing daughter and the joys of having a second child, a sprightly woman in her 90s chimes in: “Does she really have a choice? No matter what, she will love that baby, right?”