I think choice is overrated. Two children will be born today. One in the squalor of Kibera; another in the opulence of Beverley Hills. Both are heirs, only one inherits adversity, as the other inherits splendour. Should the former fail at life, do we fault him?
Someone once compared grief to carrying a needle in your pocket. Most of the time, you go about your day without noticing it. But then, out of nowhere, you get pricked, and all the pain comes rushing back.
I think that's a perfect way to describe it.