Paris Hilton and husband Carter Reum welcomed their first child together, Phoenix Barron, through a surrogate.
As expected, the reality TV star turned entrepreneur was over the moon to become a mother of a healthy baby boy.
And, as any mother out there, Hilton has been eager to share a photo of her no 9-month-old baby on the social media. On October 19, she posted a cute image of herself and her son with the caption, “My precious angel baby Phoenix’s first time in NYC.”
Sadly, however, people can be cruel at times and they don’t seem to spare anyone from criticism, especially celebrities.
Out of nowhere, the comment section under her post was filled with cruel words mocking the baby. Many of the remarks were focused on the toddler’s head size.
“You need to have your baby evaluated by a pediatric neurosurgeon, he has a pretty large fontanelle (soft spot) and macrocrania, he would likely need a MRI or US to rule out blockage of spinal fluid in his brain to be on the safe side,” one person wrote.
Added another: “Does he have encephalitis? Like what is actually going on I’m not trying to be rude that doesn’t seem normal.”
The comments Hilton received about the looks of her son were beyond cruel, and she decided to stand up for him.
On X, Hilton wrote, “Living life in the spotlight, comments are inevitable, but targeting my child, or anyone else’s for that matter, is unacceptable.
“This hurts my heart more deeply than words can describe,” the television personality said.
“I’ve worked hard to cultivate an environment that is all about love, respect, and acceptance, and I expect the same in return,” she continued.
“If I don’t post my baby, people assume I’m not a great mother, and if I do post him, there are some people who are cruel and hateful. I’m a proud working mom, and my baby is perfectly healthy, adorable and angelic.”
She ended the post by saying that she hopes that “people can treat one another with more kindness and empathy.”
Triggered by another mean comment on TikTok, Hilton explained, “There are some sick people in this world. My angel is perfectly healthy. And yes, of course, he has been to a doctor; he just has a large brain.”
Speaking to People, Hilton shared that she gets help from her family and loved ones in raising Phoenix Barron. “[My parents] are just so obsessed with him,” Hilton said. “I’m always calling my mom and my sister [Nicky Hilton] for advice, and I’m really lucky that I’m so close with my family, so I have such a big support group.”
We are so very sorry Hilton and her husband faced such negativity from people who don’t even know them.
No child, or any person in general, should ever be a subject of mocking and harassment.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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