I’m glad I chose not to have children. I’m 70 now and I don’t regret it at all.
My name is Catherine Johnson, and I live in the quaint town of Cheltenham, where Gloucestershire shrouds its streets in a blanket of history. Recently, I booked an appointment with a dermatologist and found myself sitting in the clinic hallway, waiting my turn. A woman sat next to me—elegant, with a gentle smile. We struck up a conversation, and before I knew it, her words had turned my perspective on life upside down. She wasn’t just a pleasant acquaintance; her story compelled me to reconsider things I once held as undeniable truths.
The first thing I noticed was her style—her well-manicured hands, neat hairstyle, and clothes that seemed tailored to fit. I guessed she couldn’t be more than 50. But during our chat, she mentioned she was over 70. I was taken aback—neither wrinkle nor weariness marred her appearance. She seemed vibrant and lively, unlike many her age who carry the weight of the years on their backs. This woman shone, and I couldn’t look away.
She shared her life story with a bright honesty, painting a vivid picture without embellishments. She had been married twice and was now on her own. With her first husband, David, they parted ways while still young. The reason was simple and rather harsh: she didn’t want children. He knew this from the start—her dream was a marriage without nappies and prams. But after she turned 30, he started to apply pressure: “A complete family means children; it’s time to think about it.” Her heart remained still; the maternal instinct never emerged. She stood firm, a rock amidst his pleas: having children against her will meant betraying herself. Deep discussions led to a parting of paths—divorce turned out to be easier than living a lie.
Her second marriage was to Peter, a divorced man with a daughter from his first marriage. He didn’t want more children, which brought them together. They lived in harmony, never broaching the subject of expanding their family. Peter even rejoiced that she shared his views. But fate had other plans: a car accident took his life. She was left alone, but solitude didn’t break her—it became her liberation. “I’m happy,” she said, locking eyes with me. “I don’t have to adjust for anyone; I live for myself.” There was no regret in her voice, just strength and serenity.
She spoke about her friends who spent their lives pinning hopes on their children. Now, they merely sigh: their children have grown, flown the nest, leaving their parents in silence. “Children don’t need us when we age,” she said. “I saw it, and that’s why I didn’t want to have any. I never even dreamed of it.” Her life is full: travels, books, morning walks by the river. The absence of children is not a void in her soul but wings that keep her afloat.
“What about needing someone to look after you in old age?” I asked, recalling the old saying. She laughed, “I won’t die of thirst or illness. While friends spent everything on their children, I saved. Now I have enough savings to hire care until my last day.” Her words sounded like a challenge—not to society but to the fear that life loses meaning without children. She proved otherwise: at 70, she blooms rather than withers, living for pleasure, not in anticipation of someone else’s gratitude.
As I looked at her, I thought: how often do we restrict ourselves, fearing judgment? She chose her path—without children’s voices in the house, without nappies and sleepless nights, a choice that granted her freedom. Her story is like a mirror: I saw in it a woman who didn’t bow under the weight of ‘should do’. Her first husband left, the second passed away, but she didn’t falter—she carved out a life where she is content alone. Friends lament their children’s indifference, while she drinks her morning coffee in peace, smiling at the new day.
Now I find myself asking: what if she’s right? Her words touched something deep within me. I’ve seen friends age in solitude despite having children, watched hopes crumble when grown-up sons and daughters forget to call. But she, at 70, expects no help, doesn’t live in the past, doesn’t mourn what never was. She is as free as the wind over the Thames and as happy as anyone I know.
What do you think about this? Do you agree with her choice? Her life defies stereotypes, proving happiness isn’t in children but in listening to oneself. I left the clinic with her smile in my mind and the thought: perhaps it’s time I stopped fearing my own desires. She regrets nothing, and that makes me reconsider everything I believed in.
