My wife was pregnant with our first child. We’re in the grocery store, grabbing some produce, when out of nowhere, this random woman swoops in, plants her hand right on my wife’s belly—no asking—and goes, “Oh, when are you due?!” This lady froze in horror as my wife looked her straight in the eyes and said, completely deadpan, “I’m not pregnant.”
The silence that followed was loud. Like, visibly uncomfortable loud.
The woman’s hand slowly pulled away, her face drained of color, and she stammered something like, “Oh… oh no… I’m so sorry,” before scurrying off like a squirrel caught in someone’s kitchen.
Now, my wife was very pregnant. About seven months at the time. But she had this humor about her—dry as desert air. It was her little way of protesting how people, especially strangers, treated pregnant women like public property.
We both burst out laughing once the lady disappeared behind the apples.
But what we didn’t realize at the time was that this little moment—this awkward, cringe-filled interaction—was about to ripple into something much bigger.
That same woman, who we assumed was just a nosy stranger, ended up having a much bigger role in our lives than we ever could’ve guessed.
A week later, we were at the same grocery store. Different aisle. I was grabbing some peanut butter. My wife was somewhere in the cereal section, probably talking to the baby inside her belly again like she always did.
I hear someone clear their throat behind me. I turn around, and it’s her. The lady from the produce aisle. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Hey… I know this is weird,” she began, not making eye contact, “but I wanted to properly apologize.”
I raised my eyebrows, caught off guard.
She continued, “It wasn’t just that I touched her belly without asking… it’s that I was having a day. A month. A year. I lost my daughter two years ago. She was six months old.”
I didn’t know what to say. My heart sank, and all I could think was how I’d laughed at this woman with my wife after she’d walked away. She wasn’t just a nosy stranger. She was a mom who had loved and lost.
I softened immediately. “I’m really sorry,” I said, not out of obligation, but because I truly was.