My husband and I spent seven long years of marriage unable to conceive. According to the tests, everything was fine—we were both healthy—but the children simply never came. We tried every position, tracked the "fertile windows," used ovulation calendars, and even visited a spiritual healer out of desperation, but it was all in vain. It felt as though we had committed some unspoken sin and were now paying off a heavy karmic debt in this life.
Meanwhile, the pressure from every side was relentless. His parents were waiting for heirs to the "great family legacy," which was how they referred to a lineage they claimed stretched back to the old European aristocracy. My parents just wanted grandkids to spoil; after all, I was their only daughter, their only hope for a fulfilling old age. I worked enough for two people, and my husband was just as driven. Our parents relied on us financially, yet they spent every day chipping away at my sanity.
"Claire, you're always working," my mother would say. "When are you finally going to give me some grandchildren? How much longer do we have to wait? We'll be in our graves soon, and all you do is work. Think about what's important, honey."
My mother called every single day, and my father would just nod along in the background. The other side was no better. My husband's parents eventually started telling me I was useless and that he needed a new, healthy, fertile wife. Then there was the social pressure; all our friends were already on their second or third child, while we didn't even have our first. We were actually happy—we didn't feel like anyone was missing—but public opinion eventually wore us down.
We decided to adopt. No, he wasn't ours biologically, but our parents were satisfied with the compromise. We chose an older boy; he was eight and already in school. He was a quiet child. His parents hadn't been addicts or deadbeats—they had died in a car accident, and his relatives hadn't felt capable of taking him in. He actually looked quite a bit like my husband and me. We told new acquaintances he was our biological son, and no one ever doubted it.
***
One day, however, he threw a massive tantrum. He started calling us by our first names, screaming and crying out for his real parents. We barely managed to calm him down, and once the guests had left, we sat him down for a serious talk.
"You need to call us Mom and Dad, okay?"
"You're nobody to me," he spat. "My mom was beautiful, and you're not. Her hair was different, you don't look like her at all, and you aren't my mother. I hate you!"
"Stop talking to your mother like that!" my husband snapped. "Do you want to make her cry? I won't allow it. Do you want to be grounded? Go to your room, now."
"I'll go," the boy yelled, "but don't you dare come in there!"
I sobbed all night while my husband tried to comfort me. We didn't understand where this aggression was coming from. We hadn't done anything wrong to the boy; we put him in a good school, bought him toys, and treated him like our own. For a whole week, he didn't speak to us and refused to go to school. We didn't know whether we should start punishing him more severely or just try to have a heart-to-heart. He ignored us completely, but after a week, he came to me on his own.
"I'm having a nightmare," he whispered. "Can I sleep with you?"
My husband was away on a business trip, so I let the boy sleep in my bed. I couldn't fall asleep for a long time. I laid there looking at his face, trying to find even a spark of something familiar, but his features felt so foreign. It was then I realized that I would never love this boy. Perhaps he felt it too, or perhaps he was simply closed off and incapable of loving us back.
***
When my husband returned from his trip, he found me drinking. I was exhausted and half-drunk.
"Hey, what's going on?" he asked, concerned. "Did the kid do something again? Did he hurt your feelings? Do you want me to talk to him?"
"No, I don't," I replied. "I don't want anything. Nothing at all."
"Come on, stop crying. Tell me what I can do. It kills me to see you this sad. You weren't like this before."
"I don't love him. Let's take him back to the agency."
"Are you drunk? How much did you have? Two empty bottles... you're going to be sick."
"I want that boy out of our house," I slurred, the tears starting again. "I don't love him. I don't. It was a mistake. Take him back, let him go back where he came from. I don't need him, I don't love him, I don't love him..."
My husband calmed me down and tucked me into bed. The next morning, I couldn't even get up. I felt nauseous and dizzy. I was sick for an entire week, and by the time I finally felt like myself again, the boy was gone. My husband had signed the relinquishment papers, and some lawyers we knew helped speed the process along. I never saw him again. I didn't say goodbye, and I didn't regret it for a second. I didn't love him, and after that, I didn't want any children of my own, either.
I wasn't ready for motherhood. Now, my husband and I live alone. No children. Apparently, it just wasn't meant for us. But sometimes I think about that boy and wonder how his life turned out. I hope he found people who were actually capable of loving him.
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