What this woman didn’t know, and couldn’t possibly have known, was just how loaded her simple question was

W

ith a distracted “Have a great day, girls!” I dismissed my class and hurried out of the school building. Now that the teaching part of my day was over, it was time for me to put on my “Mommy hat.” Playgroup pickup time is ten minutes after my last class ends, and it’s a 12-minute walk, so getting to my toddler on time each day is a feat.

On that very ordinary Tuesday afternoon, I put on my jacket and walked briskly down the street. By some miracle, I made it to the day care center just in time. As I reached out to ring the bell, the door opened, and I stepped aside as a young mother began maneuvering her stroller through the doorway. My little boy was waiting very impatiently for his mommy, and when he spied me from inside the room, he made a run for the door, attempting to squeeze his way past the stroller to reach me.

The other mother, concerned that the little guy was trying to make an escape, asked, “Is he yours?”

My breath caught in my throat. Is he mine? “Yes,” I choked back in response. “Yes! He’s mine. He’s mine! He’s mine!”

I savored the words as I repeated them over and over. My little one flung himself at me and I held his warm, sticky, precious little body tightly.

The other mother looked at me oddly.

What this woman didn’t know, and couldn’t possibly have known, was just how loaded her simple question was.

Because there was a time when I wasn’t at all sure that I would ever be able to call a child mine. There was a time when I’d achingly watch harried mothers running to pick up their babies, rushing to make it home for their kids’ buses, as I slowly walked home to my quiet little apartment. How I yearned to have a reason to rush, too. My hands itched to push a carriage, to wrestle little arms into coat sleeves, to hurry, hurry, hurry with the single-minded purpose of a busy young mother.

Even worse than the longing, the waiting, was the fear. What if it never happens? What if I never have a child of my own? What if Hashem’s answer to my prayers would be, “No, dearest daughter, this isn’t My plan for you”?