“Your child is going to die soon,” he alluded.

It started out as an innocuous enough conversation. Yesterday afternoon my landlord and I were talking on the phone about my move-out date, which is still not set in stone as I am still not 100% sure as to where we will be moving next month.

Over the past two years my landlord and I have become somewhat friendly. He knows that my L has some developmental issues and that we’ve been in the hospital a few times. He knows that I’m going through a tough legal battle with L’s dad. He knows that I’m a good and spiritual person. And that I pay my rent on time.

And normally, I think he is a decent person. He has been a kind a landlord. Until yesterday.

Oh yesterday. Yesterday I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard. He casually asked me how L was doing. It’s sometimes difficult to answer – especially on weeks like this when her hand function is low. So I guess I paused, and then said, ‘she is doing fine’.

He didn’t miss a beat. The first time he alluded that my daughter will live a short life, I brushed it off. As best I could. As best as anyone could. But then when he waxed on and on – and on – about how these sweet little kids burn bright, so bright that their light goes out before ours and “these kids” have learned all the lessons from the universe early and then they leave this world, well – I had a really tough time letting go. But I just “ah-ha’ed” him and “ok’ed” him. For a few reasons:

1. I want my $3500 security deposit back.

2. It was the middle of the day and I had back to back work meetings following this conversation. I didn’t have time to lose my shit.

3. I know he was trying to be kind. But wow, did it backfire.

So I carried on with my day. As best as I could. And I felt sick all day. I still do.

It didn’t help that I heard about a young girl dying earlier in the day due to complications from Rett. It didn’t help that I’m feeling so much anxiety about the future – excluding the issue of mortality. Where will we live? Will I be granted full custody on Monday? Will Mom make it home from Italy safely? What will our lives look like when L starts preschool? Will I be typecast as a vixen if I take this role which I jokingly auditioned for and was then offered a part in a film that 55,000 people at my Company will be required to watch? What if spellcheck on my iPhone makes the same mistake and I accidentally send out another text which states “I can’t wait to urinate on you!”?

All of these are real concerns. They are tangible. And damned if I let spellcheck, or my landlord, rain on mine and L’s parade.