A Stranger Jokingly Asked If I Was Having Twins. He Had No Idea How Deeply His Comment Cut.

“Hey, you got twins in there or what?” the bus driver shouted to me with a friendly wave, as he waited for the school around the corner from our house to get out.

He’d seen my round nine-month pregnant belly and made a lighthearted joke. But a shock to my chest stopped my breath where I stood.

It was late November in 2024, but my body was transported to our pregnancy four years ago when our son’s identical twin brother died inside of me, and I was forced to carry both of them – one dead, one still alive – until their birthday.

I pretended not to hear him and continued my daily walk with our dog, acting like her reactivity was the reason I was trying to scurry away.

He called out again. “I said, ‘You got twins in there?’ I swear you got some twins!!” 

I restrained myself from responding back, “I did have twins, but one of them is dead!”

Don’t make him uncomfortable. I scolded myself before the words left my mouth. “No…” I weakly replied with my own friendly wave as I waddled down the sidewalk. “Just a week past my due date!” 

I rounded the corner and heard my heart pounding in my ears. I ignored my you’ll-be-giving-birth-any-day pelvic pain, praying the tears that rushed to my eyes would wait until I got back home to fall.

As time passes, grief becomes easier to carry. I no longer have panic attacks several times a day, and I can finally fall asleep without crying. But there are still moments when the loss rattles me to my core, as if it just happened last week.

When I got home, my husband was in the kitchen. I walked straight into his arms and sobbed as if it were the day we had lost our sweet Killian. He held me with a familiar knowing that this was about our son.

In 2020, we bounced with joy when we found out we were pregnant with two healthy identical twin boys, after battling our way through three consecutive miscarriages. We had always talked about wanting twins.

The doctors called the boys Baby A and Baby B. We had always said if we had twin boys we would name them Seamus and Killian – two strong Irish names! Sitting silently in the car looking at our ultrasounds, my joy slowly evaporated.

“John…I know it sounds morbid, but I want to name which baby is Seamus and which baby is Killian. In case we lose one of them… I don’t want us needing to decide which name we keep.”

Halfway through the pregnancy we indeed received an alarming diagnosis; Killian had become terminally ill. He had no chance of survival.

Since he and his brother, Seamus, shared a placenta, the doctors would have to cauterise Killian’s umbilical cord, removing his life support – and removing his connection to me – in order to save Seamus’ life. We would lose both boys if we did nothing.

I carried both of them inside of me for the remainder of the pregnancy.

Each appointment we would check in on Seamus. We’d see him wiggling, posing, tossing and turning. We’d make jokes about him becoming a dancer or gymnast or soccer player.

Then, with our permission, we’d scan over to Killian’s lifeless body. 

He still matched his brother in size and shape, initially. But as the pregnancy progressed, he grew smaller and smaller. Eventually Seamus’ full-term size shoved Killian into a pocket under my right ribs. Every ultrasound we would see their distinct differences and be reminded of what would never be.

Growing up, I was always taught that pregnancy was a blissful time. New life is beautiful. A person’s expanding belly, a miracle; something to celebrate out loud.

I wasn’t taught how common miscarriage and pregnancy loss was.

I didn’t know that you could be pregnant and miscarry without even knowing it. That you could suddenly have the most painful period of your life and never even know the blood coming out of you were the early stages of organs, fingers and toes – a child. 2017 taught me this.

I didn’t know that doctors could blandly tell you that your pregnancy wasn’t viable. I didn’t know that you could be asked if you wanted to scrape out the dying tissue inside of your uterus now or to pass the unsuccessful pregnancy naturally at home, as casually as a grocer would ask you if you want paper or plastic. Spring of 2019 taught me this.

I didn’t know that asking, “Why does this keep happening??” could land you in an over-the-top fancy office, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a doctor decked out in a gaudy watch and designer suit explaining that a simple house downpayment could secure the possibility of maybe having kids someday. Fall of 2019 taught me this.

Early on in our twin pregnancy, when they both seemed healthy, I still felt the sting of well-intentioned comments from strangers.

“Oh, is this your first child?” Well, no, but hopefully they will be our first living ones. Something I never said, but always wanted to.

After we lost Killian, we lived in two stark realities. In public, we were excitedly met with, “Is it a boy or a girl??” 

What do I say without it turning into a trauma dump on a person who just wanted to bask in the presence of new life? In private, we’d hold each other tight as we removed the doubles of everything off of our baby registry.

Pregnancy turns a body into a conversation starter. A pregnant belly seems to act as an invitation for questioning, guessing, commenting and touching. Most of those questions only make sense if pregnancy is joyful, safe and inevitably headed toward a happy ending.

People ask, speculate and joke because pregnancy is often treated as a collective experience with a predictable outcome, not a private one filled with uncertainty. It’s easier to engage with the version of pregnancy we expect than the one that actually exists. I can’t recall a single stranger asking me how it was really going, or whether it felt manageable.

What was missing from those interactions was any acknowledgment that pregnancy can be complicated, heavy or fragile. The assumption of hope and health didn’t uplift me. Our reality didn’t emotionally align with the comments we received, and that disconnect created distance instead of connection.

Near the end of our twin pregnancy, I was waddling around a Walmart when a stranger struck up a conversation with me about a book I was holding. 

I was excited to connect with someone new since we lived in a remote place, and it was simultaneously the height of Covid-19. I missed other people. I was about to ask them another question about themselves when suddenly…

“You sure you don’t have two in there?” they playfully asked, pointing.

Like the bus driver who asked me if I was pregnant with twins, they were being playful and silly. Their voices didn’t carry any cruelty. I can understand the warmth they extended my way, but my chest still hollowed out like a cold underground cave, and left me shivering with the remembrance of what I had lost.

Even when a pregnancy is going smoothly, it can still hold immense physical, emotional and psychological weight. Invisible grief can be deeply isolating, and I’ve come to understand how common it actually is. People are often carrying more than they show. 

Our experiences have changed how I interact with people who are pregnant. I’m more careful with my words now. When I can, I ask about their heart: How are you feeling? I’m careful to avoid saying anything about their bodies. I’ve learned firsthand that the way a body looks rarely tells the whole story.

And sometimes the most meaningful thing we can offer is space for whatever might live inside that unknown.

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