I’m glad I decided not to have children. I’m 70 now, and I don’t regret it at all.
My name is Mildred Jones, and I live in Shrewsbury, where the rich history of the area lingers in the air. Not long ago, I had an appointment with a dermatologist and was waiting in the clinic’s corridor. A woman took a seat next to me—she was elegant, with a gentle smile. We started talking, and the more she spoke, the more I felt my perspective on life shift. She wasn’t just a pleasant companion; her story made me reconsider what I thought was unchangeable.
Her appearance struck me right away: well-maintained hands, a neat hairstyle, clothes that seemed tailor-made. I thought she couldn’t be more than 50. But then she mentioned in passing that she was in her 70s. I was taken aback—her face bore no signs of wrinkles, and her eyes weren’t tired. She was lively and vibrant, unlike many women her age, bent over by years and worries. This woman shone, and I couldn’t look away.
She shared her life story with an honest warmth. Married twice, now on her own. She and her first husband, Victor, parted ways when they were young. The reason was simple and harsh: she didn’t want children. He knew this from the start; she dreamed of a marriage without prams and nappies. But after her thirtieth birthday, he began to push: “A complete family means children; it’s time to think about it.” Her maternal instincts never awakened, and she stood her ground. Having a child against her will would be a betrayal of herself. Their open-hearted talks led to the realization that a divorce was easier than living a lie.
Her second marriage was with George, a divorced man with a daughter. He didn’t want more children, and this drew them together. They lived in harmony, avoiding the subject of having kids. George even found joy in their shared views. But fate intervened, and he was killed in a car accident. She was left alone, but solitude didn’t break her—it became her freedom. “I’m happy,” she told me, looking into my eyes. “I don’t need to conform for anyone; I live for myself.” Her voice held no regret, only strength and serenity.
She talked about her friends who had pinned their hopes on children their whole lives. Now they only sigh; their sons and daughters have grown up and moved away, leaving them with emptiness. “Children don’t need us when we age,” she said. “I saw that and resolved not to have any. Not once did I dream of it.” Her life was rich: travel, books, morning walks by the river. The absence of children was not a void for her but the wings that kept her afloat.
“But what about that glass of water in old age?” I asked, recalling the old saying. She laughed: “I won’t die of thirst or sickness. While others spent every penny on their kids, I saved up. Now I have enough to hire a carer for my remaining years.” Her words seemed a challenge—not to society, but to the fear that life without children is meaningless. She refuted that: at 70, she was blooming, not wilting, living for her own pleasure, not waiting for anyone’s gratitude.
I watched her and thought: how often do we box ourselves in, afraid of judgment? She chose her path—without children’s voices at home, without nappies and sleepless nights, and this choice set her free. Her story was like a mirror; I saw in it a woman who refused to yield to the pressure of “should.” Her first husband left, her second passed away, yet she didn’t break—she built a life where she thrived alone. Friends lament their children’s indifference, but she sips her morning tea in quiet and smiles at the new day.
Now, I find myself asking: what if she’s right? Her words struck a chord. I’ve seen friends grow old in solitude despite having children, their hopes dashed as their grown sons and daughters forget to call. At 70, she doesn’t expect help from anyone, doesn’t live in the past, and doesn’t long for what never was. She’s as free as the breeze over the Thames and as content as anyone I know.
What do you think about this? Do you agree with such a choice? Her life is a challenge to stereotypes, proof that happiness lies in listening to oneself. I left the clinic with her smile etched in my mind, and a thought: perhaps it’s time for me to stop being afraid of my desires. She regrets nothing, and it makes me want to reassess everything I believed in.
