When I was just twenty-six, I thought my life was already set. I was living with a man for the third year, and we had a son—a lively little toddler who had just turned two. We weren’t married, but we shared everything like a family—our home, our bed, our lives. I dreamed of having a second child, of quiet happiness where children’s laughter never faded, and the kitchen smelled of pancakes in the morning. But life doesn’t always follow the script you write for it…
A few months after my son was born, I found out I was pregnant again. I discovered it by accident and, despite my fear, I was happy—perhaps it was fate! But my joy didn’t last long. After my first Caesarean, this new pregnancy turned out to be dangerous. Doctors were blunt—if I attempted to have the baby, I might not survive the birth. One straightforward gynecologist looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You can keep the baby, but you risk not coming home.” So, I opted for an abortion.
After the procedure, I struggled—more emotionally than physically. It felt like a part of me had burned away. The father of my child offered neither sympathy nor support. He didn’t even ask questions. He just said, “If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is,” as if it were about buying a new fridge, not a matter of life and death. That’s when I realized: I was alone in this pain. Completely alone.
In the evenings, I started visiting chat rooms. Not for flirting—just to distract myself, to feel alive and needed, even if just a little. Initially, it was all empty talk, routine compliments, and crude hints—things that made me want to log off immediately. But one night, near midnight, he messaged me. A stranger. His words were warm and simple, without any hint of vulgarity, just sincerity. I stayed in the chat longer than usual. He asked if I had Facebook. At first, I refused—I wasn’t ready to open up to someone I didn’t know. But he persisted, without pressure or hurry—just assured me he was interested in my mind, not my body.
The next day, I told him I would be passing through his town on a tour, just for half an hour. He was at work but promised to come, even if just for five minutes. And he showed up. He stepped out of the car, smiled, hugged me like an old friend, and left. No hints, no questions, no expectations. Just a look that I couldn’t get out of my mind.
That evening at home, I saw his message. He’d written to me again. We started talking every day as if we’d known each other for years. A week later, we met again. This time, not just for five minutes. This time, we stayed together. Everything happened. And I thought: that’s it. Like usual. A man gets what he wants and disappears. But the next day, he was the first to write. Asked to meet again. Said he wanted to see me, just to be close. We booked a hotel. I didn’t want to bring him to the place where I lived with my child’s father.
It’s been two weeks since then. And I feel—I’m falling in love. Truly. My heart races wildly when he calls. I grin like a teenager when I hear his voice. I want everything with him: morning coffee, road trips, midnight chats. I’ve found the will to live again.
But now I’m scared. What if he falls in love with me too? What if he wants to start a family with me someday, to have a child? How do I tell him that I can’t be a mother anymore? That the doctor forbade me from having children as I might not survive it?
I’m terrified to admit the truth. I don’t want to destroy what has just started. I don’t want to be alone again. I’m unsure if he will understand. Men want heirs. They want the woman they love to give birth to a son or daughter. And I can’t…
Sometimes I think—maybe it’s best to walk away now? Before it’s too late. Before I’m too deeply in love. But then he sends a voice message saying, “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 beginning to love that I can’t give him a child? Should I fear the truth if my heart has already chosen?
