When I was pregnant with our first and only child, my husband and I were delighted to find out at my 20 week prenatal appointment that she was a girl. I shared the news with my dad, who wished me luck in what struck me as an insulting sort of way and sighed, "Daughters are a lot harder than sons." I can only assume he was referring to the fact that my spectrum of displayed emotions as a child had extended to feelings that confused him, such as "sadness," while my brother Dante's had tended to stay in the more familiar "violent rage" category.
I wanted to tell him, "I'm glad to hear you feel that way because you are going to be taking care of Dante until you die." But I didn't. I was silent. He is going to be taking care of Dante until he dies. No one needs to say it out loud.