I’m glad I chose not to have children. At 70, I have no regrets about this decision.
My name is Lillian Harrison, and I reside in the charming town of Tunbridge Wells, where the streets carry echoes of a bygone era. Recently, as I sat in the waiting room of my local surgery, preparing for my dermatology appointment, a poised and graceful woman took a seat nearby. We struck up a conversation, and I was captivated by how deeply her story reshaped my perspective. She was more than just a pleasant companion; her tale made me question what I once considered unchangeable.
Her style was impeccable, with well-manicured hands, a neat hairstyle, and attire that seemed tailor-made. I guessed she was around 50, at most. But when she mentioned she was over 70, I was taken aback—her face was free from wrinkles, her eyes devoid of weariness. Unlike many of her peers who seemed burdened by the years, she radiated life. Her energy was magnetic, and I couldn’t look away.
She recounted her life story with a candid brightness. Twice married, now alone, she had first married Peter. They parted ways early on because she chose not to have children. He was aware of her wishes from the start—she dreamt of a marriage without the trappings of nappies and prams. But when she turned thirty, he began to press: “A complete family means children, it’s time to consider it.” Her soul remained silent—motherly instincts never awoke. She stood firm, refusing to betray herself by acting against her will. After sincere discussions, they realised divorce was simpler than self-deception.
Her second marriage was to Jack, a divorcé with a daughter from his first marriage. He had no desire for more children, which aligned them. Their life was harmonious, untouched by thoughts of expanding the family. Jack was content that she shared his view. Sadly, fate intervened when he died in a car accident. Despite being left alone, solitude became her freedom. “I’m happy,” she told me, her eyes meeting mine. “I answer to no one, living for myself.” Her voice carried no regrets, only strength and peace.
She spoke of friends whose hopes rested on their children. Now, they sigh—sons and daughters have flown on their own paths, leaving their parents in emptiness. “Children don’t look after us when we’re old,” she said. “I saw this and never wanted children. I never dreamed of it.” Her life brims with adventures—travel, books, morning walks by the river. Children’s absence isn’t a void but wings that keep her buoyant.
“And what about someone to look after you in old age?” I queried, recalling the old saying. She chuckled: “I won’t die of thirst or illness. While my acquaintances spent everything on their children, I saved. Now I have enough savings to hire a carer for the rest of my days.” Her words challenged not society, but the fear that life without children lacks meaning. At 70, she proved otherwise—she thrives, living for her own joy, not waiting for gratitude from others.
As I watched her, I pondered how we often constrain ourselves, fearing judgement. She charted her path—without children’s voices at home, without nappies and sleepless nights. This choice liberated her. Her story mirrored a woman unburdened by ‘shoulds.’ The first husband left, the second passed, yet she didn’t crumble; she built a fulfilling life alone. Friends mourn their children’s indifference, while she savours her morning coffee in silence, smiling at each new day.
Now I wonder: could she be right? Her words struck a chord. I’ve seen acquaintances age in solitude, even with children, as hopes crumble when grown-ups forget to call. At 70, she waits for no help, lives not in the past, nor longs for what never was. She’s as free as a breeze over the Thames, happier than anyone I know.
What do you think of this? Do you agree with such a choice? Her life challenges stereotypes and proves that happiness isn’t rooted in children but in heeding oneself. I left the surgery with her smile etched in my memory and a thought: perhaps it’s time to stop fearing my own desires. She has no regrets, and this makes me reconsider everything I once believed.
