My name is Anne Thompson, and I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, where the history is as rich as the peaceful River Avon. Since I was a child, I dreamed of becoming a mother—an unwavering, cherished aspiration. In our family, there were three children; my mum devoted her life to raising us with love and care. That image of a big, bustling family became etched in my soul. I couldn’t envision my life any other way—a cozy home, filled with the voices of children, their laughter, their tiny footsteps. However, fate had its own plans, and my dreams crumbled against a harsh reality, leaving only fragments of hope behind.
My husband, Daniel, and I spent three long years trying to conceive. Each month brought fresh hope, and each time, a new disappointment. I would cry at night, staring at the ceiling, while he silently held me, concealing his own pain. Finally, the fertility specialist delivered the verdict: “IVF is your only option.” We took the plunge, and the first attempt gifted us a miracle—our daughter, Lily, who is now 14. Holding her in my arms, so tiny and warm, I thought: this is happiness. But I wanted more—to give her siblings, so she could grow up surrounded by family, as I did.
Eighteen months later, we tried again. Four attempts—four blows from fate. Each time, I believed it would work. Each time, I was plunged into depression when hopes were dashed. After the fourth failure, I gave up. “Let it be,” I told myself, clenching my fists, “I have one daughter.” The dream slipped away like sand through fingers, and the pain was unbearable—sharp as a knife in the heart. I looked at Lily and felt guilt: I couldn’t give her what I yearned for myself.
Sometimes I wonder if, had I let go of the ideal, there wouldn’t have been these grueling procedures, these tears, this emptiness. I tortured myself, my body, my soul, while Daniel pleaded with me to stop earlier. “You’ll push yourself to the brink,” he said, noticing the dark circles under my eyes. “I fear for you, for your health.” He saw me sinking into depression, but I couldn’t release the dream. Now I understand he was right, and I was blind in my stubbornness.
Our daughter grows up as an only child. This is my greatest sorrow. I wanted her to know the joy of siblings—their mischief, their support, their warmth. But Lily is the only child, and that is my pain, my unresolved longing. Yet these hardships strengthened Daniel and me. The struggle for children, though unsuccessful, forged us into something stronger, like steel in a furnace. We learned to value each other, to stand together through the storms. Today, we look forward, cherishing Lily—her smile, her achievements. I can’t say I’ve completely made peace with not having a second child. I’m 42, and I know time has passed; the chances are slim. But I’ve learned to live with it, albeit with a quiet sadness in my heart.
The three of us—Daniel, Lily, and I—live in harmony. Our home is full of warmth, even if not the lively kind I imagined as a child. I look at my daughter and see the best of us in her: her determination, her kindness, her light. She grows without siblings, and it’s the one regret I hold. I dreamed of giving her a lively family, where no one feels alone, but life had other plans. Still, we are happy—not perfectly, not as in my fantasies, but genuinely. The challenges didn’t break us; they bonded us into a united whole, and I am grateful for that.
