A woman strolls out of Push My Swing pre-school on 29th and Lexington, and I walk by and for the first time in a long time feel an unusual type of happiness. She looks around 30. Worn-out but happy. Dressed business-casual and probably just done visiting her kid during her lunch break.

I wonder if someday I might want a child after all and this makes me giddy with anticipation. I smile at her; authentically, even, somehow; she returns the courtesy. I feel happy.

No sooner do I pass her than I approach a dilapidated Laundromat. It looks dirty and smells bad. Two men sleep under an awning that hangs over sacks of garbage, their torn clothes stained and beards showing. My selfish grin becomes an expression of sheer terror as the reality of their plight confronts me. Both are someone’s child, living amid unending misery that’s indescribable. How could I responsibly help create a child when life resembles unending hell?

I couldn’t.

I feel unhappy. I feel terrible and cursed, as though I’m responsible for it all. Then I remember that, partially, I am.

I suppose I feel human.