I settled into a cozy corner of a bustling café, where the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. Beside me sat a woman, her belly round with pregnancy, savoring her third cup of coffee in one sitting. The sight stirred unease in me, growing until I could no longer stay silent. “Please, consider your baby,” I said, my voice spilling out with worry. She turned, her eyes sharp with irritation. “Do you think I’m foolish?” she retorted. “I’m not pregnant for myself—I’m a surrogate.”
Her words stopped me cold. I hadn’t anticipated that truth. She placed her cup down and leaned back, her face stern yet softened by a faint quiver. “People see my belly and think they understand my life,” she said, her tone heavy with frustration. “The family I’m carrying this child for recently shared they might not be prepared to welcome the baby. I’ve poured my heart into nurturing this life, but now I’m left wondering what will happen when the time comes.”
My face flushed with embarrassment. I, a stranger, had been so quick to form an opinion without grasping her struggles. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t intend—” She interrupted softly, her voice now calm. “I understand. Most don’t mean to hurt. But assumptions cut deeper than people know. Sometimes, the hardest part of carrying a child isn’t the physical weight—it’s the uncertainty of what lies ahead.”
We sat quietly, the gentle clatter of cups and the café’s soft hum enveloping us. For the first time, I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands as she clutched her mug, as if it grounded her in the moment. I left the café carrying a lesson weightier than the coffee I’d sipped: never presume to know someone’s journey. Behind every look, every motion, there could be an unseen struggle—and what people need most isn’t criticism, but kindness.
