Am I the only one who is trying not judge this through the lens of “We have one precious child at the age of 35” culture? I am old enough to remember some of my grandmother’s 14 siblings, and though there was love there, there was also this awkward sense of less importance. One died at 5ish from a flame from a trash barrel catching her dress on fire. Another fell down the stairs and broke his neck. There was sadness, but there wasn’t the chest beating wailing, they were too poor to stop working and mourn.
It is fucked up, but the impact on these parents may be one more of hope and relief than sadness.
