At forty-four, I discovered I was pregnant—alone, bewildered, suspended between dread and something like wonder.
I live by myself now. My children are grown, settled into their own lives—families, mortgages, endless responsibilities. Yes, I’m already a grandmother. My husband left years ago. We never formalized the divorce—waited until the kids were independent, educated, stable. The moment they were, he vanished. Found someone younger, freer, more alive. He was exhausted by our marriage, by my silence, by the monotony.
I don’t blame him. Truly. If I’d had someone else back then, perhaps I’d have left too. But I never strayed. Not once. I stayed within the lines—for the family, for the children. And now, when I should be free, when I should finally live for myself, I’ve become invisible. My ex and I are cordial, exchanging messages about the grandchildren. But really, we’ve drifted into separate worlds.
I hoped the children would visit more. They don’t. They have their own lives. I don’t resent them—what matters is they’re happy. But the flat is so quiet. Evenings alone, breakfasts in silence… I’ve started losing myself.
Then a man appeared. I didn’t resist. He was kind, warm, made no promises—and that seemed honest. With him, I remembered what it felt like to be a woman. I wore bright colours again, smiled, studied my reflection with curiosity. For a while, I was alive. Then, just as suddenly, he disappeared. No farewell. Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
I’m forty-four. Alone. And carrying a child.
The decision was instinctive. I never planned it, never weighed the options. I just knew—an abortion was unthinkable. Morally, emotionally. Yet terror grew inside me. What would become of the baby? Of me? Could I carry to term? Survive the birth? What would the doctors say? The neighbours?
I won’t tell the father. He left—that’s answer enough. This is my burden. My life. My choice. Even so, I’m terrified.
Money will be tight. I survive on my pension and odd jobs. Savings? Nearly none. Questions about prams, nappies, medicine pile up like storm clouds. But deeper than fear is this: this child feels like a reason to exist. I’ll love it fiercely. I won’t repeat my mistakes.
And yet—war rages inside me. What if they’re ashamed of an ageing mother? What if I don’t live to see them graduate? What if I fall ill? What if I break?
When my daughters found out, they were horrified. No support, only tears and shouting. They insist I can’t do this. That I should be a grandmother, not a mother. That I should babysit their children, not raise another.
*Mum, have you lost your mind? At your age! Your heart, your blood pressure!*
They beg me to terminate. They bombard me with articles, doctors, statistics. Claim I’m being selfish, reckless, that I’ll ruin my life and theirs.
I don’t know what to say. I’m torn between fear and faith, pain and hope, reason and instinct. Inside me, a fragile life persists—quiet but stubborn. If I let it go, I’ll be hollow forever.
But if I keep it, I’ll be truly alone. No support. No approval. Just my daughters’ disgust and the weight of an uncertain future.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I’m strong enough. But this much is clear: this pregnancy isn’t just a shock. It’s a test. And a chance. Perhaps the last one I’ll ever get.
