My husband and I spent seven long years of marriage trying to conceive a child, but it never happened. According to the doctors, everything was fine—we were both healthy—yet there were no babies. We tried every position, tracked cycles down to the hour, used ovulation kits, and I even went to see a holistic spiritual healer out of desperation. It was all in vain. It felt as if we had committed some unspoken sin and were being forced to work off a debt of bitter karma in this life.
Meanwhile, the pressure from everyone around us was relentless. His parents were obsessed with heirs for their “great dynasty”—that’s actually how they referred to their family tree, which supposedly traced back to the Mayflower or some old European aristocracy. My parents just wanted grandkids to spoil; I was their only daughter, their only hope for a “legacy” and someone to look after them in their old age. I was working sixty-hour weeks, and my husband was doing the same. Our parents were constantly leaning on us for financial support while simultaneously picking at our brains every single day.
—Sarah, you’re always working. When are you finally going to give me a grandchild? How much longer do we have to wait? Your father and I won’t be around forever, and all you do is focus on your career. Think about what matters, honey.
My mother called every day, and my father would just chime in with his agreement in the background. The other side was even worse. My in-laws eventually started telling me I was “defective” and that their son 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 together—we didn’t feel like we were missing anything—but the weight of public opinion eventually won out.
We decided to adopt. Sure, he wouldn’t be “ours” biologically, but our parents were just happy to have a kid in the picture. We chose an older boy; he was eight and already in second grade. He was a quiet child. His parents hadn’t been addicts or criminals; they had died in a car accident, and no other relatives were willing to take him in. He actually bore a slight resemblance to my husband and me. We told new acquaintances he was our biological son, and no one ever doubted it.
But one night, he had a complete meltdown. He started calling us by our first names, screaming and crying 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.
—Listen, you need to call us Mom and Dad. Okay?
—You aren’t anybody to me. 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. You want to be punished? Go to your room, right now.
—Fine, I’ll go! But don’t you dare come in there!
I sobbed all night while my husband tried to comfort me. We couldn’t understand where this aggression was coming from. We hadn’t done anything wrong to the boy. We put him in a great private school, bought him all the toys he wanted, and treated him like our own. For a week, he didn’t speak to us and refused to go to school. We went back and forth on whether we should be strict, use “tough love,” 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 bad dream. 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 staring at his face, trying to find some spark of connection, something familiar, but his features looked so foreign to me. That was the moment I realized I would never love this boy. Perhaps he felt it too, or perhaps he was just too closed off to love anyone else.
When my husband got back from his trip, he found me drinking. I was exhausted and half-drunk.
—Hey, what’s going on? Did the kid do something again? Did he hurt your feelings? You want me to handle him?
—No, I don’t. I don’t want anything. Nothing at all.
—Come on, stop crying. Tell me what to do. It kills me to see you like this. You weren’t like this before he got here.
—I don’t love him. Let’s take him back to the agency.
—Are you drunk? How much did you have? Two empty bottles… Sarah, you’re going to be sick.
—I want that boy out of this house. I don’t love him, I just don’t. This was a mistake. Take him back. Let him go back to where he came from. I don’t need him, I don’t love him, I don’t love him…
My husband quieted me down and tucked me into bed. The next morning, I couldn’t get up. I was nauseous and my head was spinning. I was sick for an entire week, and by the time I finally felt human again, the boy was gone. My husband had signed the relinquishment papers, and some lawyers we knew helped expedite the process. I never saw the boy again. I didn’t say goodbye, and I didn’t feel a shred of regret. I didn’t love him, and after that, I didn’t want children of my own ever again.
It turns out I just wasn’t meant for motherhood. Now it’s just my husband and me, living child-free. Apparently, that life just wasn’t for us. But sometimes I think about that boy. I wonder how his life turned out. I hope he found people who were actually capable of loving him.
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