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" I have inherited my mother&amp;#039;s infliction \u2013 the one that causes strangers to reveal their life stories for no apparent reason. One recent weekend, two strangers cornered me to share their woes. But, it turns out, that wasn&amp;#039;t such a bad thing after all.   The ferry to Manhattan was unusually crowded that Friday morning, so I wasn&amp;#039;t surprised when a kindly looking gray-haired man sat down next to me.   &amp;quot;Going to work?&amp;quot; he asked.    &amp;quot;Yes,&amp;quot; I answered, though that wasn&amp;#039;t entirely true. I was heading into the city to appear on a radio show for my new book.    &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m going to the car show,&amp;quot; he offered, thereby explaining why the ferry was filled with men. &amp;quot;I go every year.&amp;quot; And then he got a wistful look in his eye before adding, &amp;quot;This is the first year since my wife died.&amp;quot;   Here we go.   He went on to tell me how he had quit his job at IBM just last year to stay home with his wife, who had trouble getting around because of her aching knees. But, after 30 years of battling lupus, her heart gave out.   &amp;quot;We had a doctor for her lungs, one for her circulation and one for her kidneys,&amp;quot; he explained, &amp;quot;but we didn&amp;#039;t have a heart doctor.&amp;quot; His voice trailed off as he forced a smile and shrugged.   My heart ached for him, but it also ached for me. I pictured my husband in his place as a widower telling some stranger on the ferry, &amp;quot;The cancer finally got her.&amp;quot; I vowed to avoid talking to strangers, but two days later, it happened again.   &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t know what I&amp;#039;d do without my brother,&amp;quot; the elderly woman was telling me. She was shuffling past my booth at the hot dog place where I was hosting my son&amp;#039;s birthday party. I had made the mistake of sitting near the restrooms, trapping me between her life story and the wall. &amp;quot;I lost my son last year,&amp;quot; she added.   Here we go again.   She used the restrooms and then returned to her brother in the booth where, I realized my brother, Scott, and I had eaten one of our quarterly lunches last year, just a few weeks before I was diagnosed with lymphoma.    I promised myself to avoid her the next time she walked by, but she cornered me again.   &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s my brother,&amp;quot; she repeated. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;ve been together all these years.&amp;quot; Then she added the most fitting non sequitur ever, &amp;quot;I had cancer when I was 31.&amp;quot;    This time, I didn&amp;#039;t try to shoo her away.   &amp;quot;You had cancer?&amp;quot; I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my neighbor, Anthony, smiling. He knew I was wishing I could be an old cancer survivor like her some day.   &amp;quot;Yes,&amp;quot; she answered. &amp;quot;And now I&amp;#039;m going to be 84 at the end of April.&amp;quot; She looked at my husband and my birthday party of boys, and added, &amp;quot;You have a lovely family. You&amp;#039;re very lucky.&amp;quot; Then she visited the ladies&amp;#039; room and returned to her booth \u2013 Scott&amp;#039;s and my booth \u2013 to sit down with her brother again.   As I watched them pay their check, gather their coats and leave, I decided that maybe it&amp;#039;s not such a bad infliction I&amp;#039;ve inherited from my mother, after all.   Scott, meet me for lunch \u2013 in 2051 \u2013 in our usual booth.    "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a22273/talking-to-strangers/>