At forty-four, I found myself pregnant—single and utterly unprepared.
Now, I live alone. My children are grown, busy with their own families, homes, and lives. Yes, I’m already a grandmother. My husband and I split years ago—we stayed together just long enough for the kids to finish school and stand on their own feet. The moment they did, he left. He found someone younger, freer, more vibrant. He was tired of our routine, my quietness, the weight of our shared history.
I don’t blame him, truly. Had there been someone else for me back then, I might have done the same. But I never strayed—not once. I played by the rules, for the sake of the family, the children. And now, when I’m finally free to live for myself, it turns out no one needs me. My ex and I stay civil, chatting occasionally about the grandkids, but we’ve drifted apart in every real sense.
I’d hoped the children would visit more, but they rarely do. They have their own lives, and I don’t resent them—I’m just glad they’re happy. Still, the silence in the flat is oppressive. Dinners alone, breakfasts with no conversation… I started forgetting who I was.
Then, when a man came into my life, I didn’t resist. He was warm, attentive, made no grand promises—and that honesty was refreshing. With him, I felt like a woman again. I wore bright colours, smiled at my reflection, even started enjoying my own company. For a while, it felt like living. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended. He vanished without a word. Two weeks later, I discovered I was carrying his child.
Forty-four. Single. Pregnant.
The decision was instant—I didn’t deliberate. An abortion was never an option, not morally, not for me. But the terror grew. What about the baby? What about me? Could I carry to term? Would there be complications? What would the doctors say? The neighbours?
I won’t tell the father. He left—this isn’t his burden. It’s mine. My life, my choice. And yet, despite the resolve, fear lingers.
Financially, it’ll be tight. My pension and odd jobs barely cover things now—savings are a distant dream. Nappies, a pram, baby medicines—the costs pile up in my head. But more than that, this child feels like a purpose. I’ll love it fiercely. I’ll learn from past mistakes, do better this time.
But the doubt gnaws. What if they’re ashamed of an old mum? What if I don’t live to see them graduate? What if I get ill? What if I can’t keep up?
When my daughters found out, they were horrified. No support, just shock. The youngest cried; the eldest shouted. They insist I can’t handle it—that I should be a grandmother, not a mother. That my role is helping with their kids, not raising another.
“Mum, have you lost it? At your age! Your heart, your blood pressure!” That’s my eldest talking.
They push for an abortion, citing doctors, statistics, risks. They say I’m being selfish, reckless, that I’ll ruin all our lives.
I don’t know what to say. I swing between fear and faith, pain and hope, logic and instinct. Inside me, tiny and stubborn, a new life grows. And I know—if I let it go, I’ll be empty forever.
But if I keep it, I’ll be alone. No support, no approval. My daughters’ scorn, an uncertain future.
I don’t know what to do. Don’t know if I’m strong enough. But one thing’s certain—this isn’t just a surprise. It’s a test. A chance. Maybe—the last one I’ll get.
