That day will forever remain in my memory. The day I first held my sons in my arms. Two tiny, warm bundles—so delicate, so dear. I was ready to protect them from the entire world. But the first challenge came sooner than I expected—right in the maternity ward.
My hospital roommate, a woman in her forties, had just given birth to her second daughter. Her husband visited frequently, bringing expensive bouquets, and relatives came with gifts—it seemed like her life was perfect.
“How are you feeling?” she asked while scrolling through her phone as I gently placed one of my sons in his crib.
“Happy,” I answered sincerely.
She glanced at my babies, and a strange smirk appeared on her lips.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t want kids like that,” she said casually.
“Like what?” I turned sharply, not believing my ears.
“Well, one has a birthmark covering half his face, and the other looks so weak… Nothing but problems. In our family, that’s just not acceptable,” she shrugged indifferently.
My throat went dry. I held my younger son, who had just stirred, and felt my anger rising.
“Excuse me, but did you just say you would reject your own child if they weren’t…” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “‘perfect’ enough for you?”
“Of course,” she replied as if we were discussing stroller brands and not the fate of living beings. “The world is cruel. Why intentionally subject a child to mockery? It will be hard for them. You’ll only make life harder for yourself and for them.”
I took a deep breath.
“And what if your daughter had been born with special traits?”
She chuckled.
“A smart woman knows how to plan ahead. We did all the tests, all the screenings. Everything was under control.”
I looked her straight in the eye.
“And what if, God forbid, something happens to her? An illness, an accident? What if her appearance changes? Or what if, one day, she gives birth to a ‘not perfect’ grandchild?”
Her smile wavered, and a flicker of concern flashed in her eyes.
“That won’t happen.”
“Are you so sure?” I asked calmly. “Children grow up absorbing our values. If they learn to love only the ‘perfect,’ what guarantee do you have that one day they won’t decide that *you* no longer meet their expectations?”
Her face turned pale.
“That’s nonsense…”
“It’s logic,” I replied quietly.
She never spoke to me again after that. But on the day of our discharge, as I packed my things, I noticed how she was looking at her newborn daughter. And in her eyes, there was something new—perhaps, for the first time in a long while, a real understanding that she was holding not an ideal, but a life.
Maybe she would never truly grasp that beauty isn’t in perfection. But I was sure of one thing: my sons would grow up knowing how to love—not for appearance, not for convenience, but for the soul.
