The woman flipped open my chart. I was there to talk about my teeth. A routine check up. Count them. Scrape them. Polish them. Set me free.
“Are you still nursing?”
“How old is your baby?”
“Do you have other children?”
There’s always a silence afterward.
This interaction has become routine. Where I live I could be a grandmother and it wouldn’t be out of the realm of ordinary. I feel her eyes scan my date of birth. Some mental calculations are made. I have a few more years than her notched on my belt. And my son is more than a decade younger than her oldest. I smile.
What I consider saying:
He took a long time to get here. I feel lucky to have him. Every night I thank God my one is in my life. And, yes, it’s none of your damn business.
Instead, I lean back in my chair, look at the tips of my shoes, open my mouth, and wait.