When I was just twenty-six, I felt like my life was already set. I had a partner with whom I’d been living for three years and a son—a lively little toddler who had just turned two. We weren’t married, but we lived as a family—sharing a home, a bed, and our daily concerns. I dreamed of having another child, of a quiet happiness filled with children’s laughter, and the morning aroma of pancakes in the kitchen. But life doesn’t always follow the script you write for it…
A few months after my son was born, I fell pregnant again. I found out by accident and, despite my fear, felt joyful—it felt like a blessing! But my happiness was short-lived. After my first C-section, this new pregnancy turned out to be risky. The doctors were blunt—they said if I decided to go through with it, I might not survive the delivery. One particularly straightforward doctor looked me in the eye and said, “You can keep the baby, but you might not make it back home.” So, I chose to have an abortion.
After the procedure, I felt lost for a long time—not so much physically, but emotionally. It felt like a part of me had burnt out. I received no sympathy or support from my child’s father. He didn’t even ask a single question. He just said, “If that’s how it is, then so be it,” as if we were discussing buying a new fridge rather than life and death. That’s when I realized: I was alone in my pain. Completely alone.
In the evenings, I started visiting chat rooms—not for flirting, just to distract myself, to feel alive, even just a little needed. Initially, it was just empty conversations, routine compliments, crude innuendos—things that made me want to log off immediately. But one night, around midnight, he messaged me. A stranger whose words were warm and sincere, without any hint of vulgarity, just genuine kindness. I stayed in that chat longer than usual. He asked if I had Facebook. I initially declined—I didn’t want to open up to a stranger. But he was persistent, never pushy or hurried—he convinced me he was interested in my thoughts, not my body.
The next morning, I told him I was going on a day trip and would be passing through his town for about half an hour. He was at work but promised to meet me, even if just for five minutes. And he did. He stepped out of his car, smiled, hugged me like an old friend, and drove away. No insinuations, no questions, no expectations. Just a gaze that stuck in my mind.
That evening at home, I saw his message. He was writing to me again. Our conversations became daily, as if we had known each other for ages. A week later, we met again. This time not for five minutes. This time we spent real time together. Everything happened. And I thought: that’s it. Like usual. He got what he wanted and would disappear. But the next day, he messaged first. He wanted to see me again, just to be with me. We booked a hotel. I didn’t want to bring him to the place I shared with my child’s father.
Two weeks have passed since then. And I feel myself falling in love. Truly. My heart races when he calls. I smile like a schoolgirl when I hear his voice. I want everything with him: morning coffees, trips together, midnight talks. I want to live again.
But now I’m scared. What if he falls in love with me truly? What if one day he wants to start a family with me, to have a child? How can I tell him that I can’t be a mother again? That a doctor has forbidden me from having children because it might kill me?
I’m terrified of admitting it. I don’t want to destroy what we’ve just begun. I don’t want to be alone again. I’m not sure he’ll understand. Men want heirs. They want the woman they love to give them a son or a daughter. And I can’t…
Sometimes I think—maybe it’s better to leave now? Before it’s too late. Before I dive headfirst into this feeling. But then he sends me a voice message where he simply says, “Good morning, beautiful,” and all my resolve crumbles like a house of cards.
What should I do? How do I tell a man I’m starting to love that I can’t give him a child? Is it worth fearing the truth if my heart has already chosen?
