As I am sipping my drink in one of my favorite cafés, I am watching a quaint scene at a neighboring table. There sit a couple in their mid-thirties with an infant of only a few months and a woman about their age who seems to be their close friend. Bundled up in a tiny but thick blanket, the infant is sleeping in its father’s arms. The father looks exhausted, and so does the mother. Both of them are yawning from time to time. But their friend is gazing all the while into the infant’s peaceful face and smiling, smiling. It is obvious that she cannot stop looking at the infant, as well as that she cannot stop smiling at it. The blissful expression on her face is a clear sign that she has not been blessed with a child yet. From my vantage point, she is in the throes of a crushing if treacherous instinct. The very same instinct that is responsible for the existence of everyone in sight, to be sure, but an instinct that cannot be checked by anyone’s better judgment. As witnessed by so many children born right in the middle of protracted wars punctuated by famine and pestilence. Treacherous is the word, no doubt whatsoever. Which is why I, too, cannot stop smiling, smiling.