"Statistically, a certain number of births have to be like Judge," I am saying. "In the class I volunteer in... some of those parents don't care." Pause. Breathe. Again. "Statistically, those births have to go to someone, and I say all the time that Judge could not have gone to a more loving family."
She tears up. When you read that, I want you to read it like tear as in paper, not tear as in crying. Although there's that, too.
"I am not particularly religious," I am weaving. "I was an atheist for a long time. But I cannot believe there is a higher power that would let you go through that again."
The pain of an abnormal child. Johnny who may never graduate high school. Earn a college degree. Pontificate over majors, and girls, and cars. Special education is so difficult; people always see the wasted potential.
"Those parents grow resentful," I'm saying. "You and your husband have never."
Cried on the way home, tiny tears hitting my windshield. Maybe God's. I hope so, that son of a bitch. I hope they were tears of regret, and not tears of regrets yet to come.
Don't fuck it up, God.