I am a Latina in her late 20s who should have eight kids by now. I’m not joking or poking fun at a stereotype when I say this. I have one child, born from my sixth pregnancy. I’ve been pregnant eight times. Eight. Those who know me think of me as a happy person. And I suppose I am. I do a very good job of hiding the terrible, sad secret of my miscarriages and I live every day with a broken heart—one that’s been broken seven times over.