The other day the dryer repair man came to our house. I looked down at him on our floor as he pried open the bottom. He was a short fellow, with small hands and no wedding ring. I walked away and burst into tears. Phil came in at that moment.
“What’s wrong? Is the baby okay?” he asked, alarmed.
“Everything is fine,” I said in a hushed tone.
“Then what’s wrong??”
“The dryer man,” I said. “He doesn’t have a wedding ring. What if he is all alone? What if he has no family?”