I grew up an only child. It wasn’t for my parents’ lack of trying. Apparently I had a twin that was lost early on. My mom lost two babies at 7 months after she had me. Had they lived, I would’ve had two sisters. They tried to adopt when I was five, but the birth mother changed her mind, conveniently after they had paid most of her prenatal care. They lost thousands of dollars that they couldn’t recover because even if they sued and won, the birth mother was on welfare. (Fortunately, this was 25 years ago and most adoption agencies have provisions to keep this sort of thing from happening nowdays, or at least to keep couples from losing all their money). But the result was the same: I grew up feeling like something was missing from my life.
I had friends of course, some of whom I’m still friends with and consider my sisters, but I never had the real thing. I desperately wish for the bond that so many of my friends share with their sisters. So I made up my mind that I wanted at least 2, maybe 3 kids. But of course I never planned on putting off trying to conceive so long waiting for the ex to be ready. I thought I’d be having my second child at 30, not my first. With divorce looming, I have to face the fact that I probably won’t be able to give my daughter the thing I wanted most as a little girl. I also feel horrible that I couldn’t hold my marriage together to give her a complete family.
Everyone keeps telling me I’m pretty and could find someone else and have more kids, but I’m already 30! I’m scared to have a baby after 35 because of the birth defect risks. Also, I don’t want to jump into another marriage just to satisfy my maternal urges (not that marrying for love turned out so great). Yes, I appreciated the little girl I have and there are days I feel guilty for wanting more. I’m working towards acceptance of that fact, but it’s a long road ahead. But for now, part of my heart already mourns for the children I was meant to have but never will.
