I met Tender Heart last weekend.
Her flaxen curls billowed around her pixie face in the September sun. Her tears were tiny, shiny glass balls dangling off the cliffs of her cheeks.
“Everyone else at school has brothers and sisters,” she cried. “I’m the only one who doesn’t. All I want is to be a big sister.”
Eight years young, and Tender Heart already knows the sting of barrenness.
My eyes moved to Mother. Silently, patiently she bore with her daughter’s grief, snuggling Tender Heart deep into the safety of her blanket arms. The only trace of her own deep sadness was the quiet network of shiny rivers streaming down her own cheek cliffs.
And I wept in shame.
For I weep for myself in my barrenness, but Mother weeps for her suffering child.
The mother of one bears a double cross.