For seven long years of marriage, my husband James and I couldn’t conceive a child. Medical tests showed we were both healthy, yet no children came. We tried different positions, tracked fertile days, followed ovulation calendars, and even visited a spiritual healer—all to no avail. It felt as though we were paying for some grave sin, working off a harsh karmic debt in this life.
Meanwhile, pressure mounted from all sides. James’s parents eagerly awaited heirs to their “grand dynasty,” as they called their lineage, tracing back to old English aristocracy. My parents, on the other hand, simply longed to dote on grandchildren. As their only daughter, I was their sole hope for a joyful retirement. I worked tirelessly, and James kept pace. Yet our parents, financially dependent on us, never let up with their nagging.
— Emily, you’re always working, but when will you give me grandchildren? How long must we wait? We’re not getting any younger, and you just keep working. Come to your senses, dear.
My mother called daily, with my father chiming in to agree. James’s parents were no less relentless. They even began telling me I was worthless, insisting they needed a new, healthy, fertile daughter-in-law. Society piled on too—friends were already welcoming their second and third children while we hadn’t even had our first. We were happy just the two of us, but public opinion wore us down.
We decided to adopt a child. Not our own flesh and blood, but our parents were thrilled nonetheless. We chose an older boy, eight years old, already in school. He was quiet, his biological parents neither alcoholics nor addicts—they had died in a car accident, and no relatives stepped up to take him in. He even resembled us, and we told new acquaintances he was our biological son, with no one questioning it.
But one day, he threw a tantrum, calling us by our first names, screaming for his real parents. We barely calmed him down, and after the guests left, we sat him down for a serious talk.
— Call us Mom and Dad, okay?
— You’re nothing to me. My mom was beautiful, and you’re not. Her hair was different—you don’t look anything like her. You’re nobody to me. I hate you.
— Stop talking to your mother like that. Do you want to make her cry? I won’t allow it. Do you want to be punished? Go to your room, now.
— I’ll go, but don’t you dare come in.
I cried all night, and James tried to comfort me. We couldn’t understand where this aggression came from. We hadn’t done anything wrong—we enrolled him in a good school, bought him toys, treated him like our own. For a week, he refused to speak to us or go to school. We debated whether to discipline him physically, punish him, or just talk it out. He ignored us, but after a week, he approached me.
— I keep having a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?
James was away on a business trip, so I let the boy sleep in my bed. I couldn’t fall asleep, staring at his face, searching for something familiar. But his face felt so foreign, and I realized I would never love this boy. Perhaps he sensed it, or maybe he too was closed off, unable to love.
When James returned, he found me drunk and exhausted.
— Hey, what’s wrong? Did that kid act up again? Did he hurt you? Want me to deal with him?
— No, I don’t want that. I don’t want anything.
— Come on, stop crying. Tell me what to do. It kills me to see you so sad. You didn’t used to be like this.
— I don’t love him. Let’s send him back to the orphanage.
— Are you drunk? Two empty bottles—aren’t you feeling sick?
— I want that boy out of our house. I don’t love him, I don’t. It was a mistake. Take him back, let him go. I don’t need him, I don’t love him…
James calmed me down and put me to bed. The next morning, I couldn’t get up—nausea and dizziness overwhelmed me. I was sick for a week, and when I recovered, the boy was gone. James had filed the paperwork, and lawyer friends expedited the process. I never saw him again, didn’t say goodbye, and felt no regret. I didn’t love him, and after that, I didn’t want children of my own.
I wasn’t ready for motherhood. Now, James and I live together, childless, and perhaps that’s just not for us. But sometimes I think of that boy, wondering how his life turned out. I hope he found someone who could love him.
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