I’m glad I chose not to have children. I’m 70 now, and I have no regrets.
My name is Lucy Walters, and I live in Canterbury, where the history-laden streets evoke memories of the past. I recently scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist and sat in the clinic’s waiting area, anticipating my turn. Beside me, a sophisticated woman sat down, her gentle smile immediately drawing me in. We struck up a conversation, and before I knew it, her words unraveled a new perspective on life for me. It wasn’t just her pleasant demeanor that captivated me—it was her story that challenged what I considered unchanging.
From the outset, I noticed her elegance: well-manicured hands, a neat hairstyle, and clothes that seemed tailor-made. I guessed she was around 50. But during our chat, she mentioned being over 70. My surprise froze me for a moment—her lack of wrinkles and the absence of weariness in her eyes betrayed her age. Vibrant and lively, she stood in contrast to her peers, often burdened by years and worries. This woman shone, and I found it hard to look away.
She recounted her life story with a sort of luminous honesty, free of embellishment. Twice married, yet alone now. Her first marriage to Charles ended young, primarily due to her decision not to have children. From the beginning, he knew—she pictured a marriage without nappies and prams. But after she turned 30, he started pressuring her: “A complete family means children. It’s time to reconsider.” Yet, her maternal instinct never awakened. She stood firm, believing that having children against her will was a betrayal of herself. Though they conversed openly, their paths diverged—ending their marriage was simpler than living a lie.
Her second marriage was to James—a divorced man with a daughter from his earlier marriage. They bonded over their mutual disinterest in having more children, living in harmony without the topic ever arising. James appreciated her perspective aligning with his, but fate intervened: a car accident claimed his life. Despite being alone, loneliness didn’t break her—it became her liberation. “I’m happy,” she told me, meeting my eyes. “I’m free to live for myself.” No regret marred her voice; only resilience and tranquility lingered.
She spoke of friends whose lives revolved around hopes pinned on their children. Now, they merely sighed as their grown sons and daughters journeyed far, leaving them behind in an empty nest. “Children don’t need us when we grow old,” she observed. “I saw this coming, which is why I didn’t want to give birth. I never dreamed of it.” Her life brimmed with travel, books, and morning strolls by the river. The absence of children wasn’t a void in her life but rather wings that kept her afloat.
“But what about a glass of water in old age?” I asked, referencing the old saying. She laughed: “I won’t die of thirst or illness. While others spent everything on their children, I saved up. I have enough savings to hire a carer for my remaining days.” Her words felt like a challenge—not to society but to the fear that a life without children loses its meaning. She proved otherwise: at 70, she was thriving, not fading, living on her terms without waiting for others’ gratitude.
I watched her and thought: how often do we confine ourselves, fearing judgment? She chose her path—without the voices of children, without nappies and sleepless nights—and that choice freed her. Her story was a mirror: I saw a woman who didn’t crumble under the weight of “shoulds.” The first husband left, the second one passed, yet she stood unbroken, crafting a life she enjoyed in her solitude. Her friends lamented their children’s indifference, while she savored her morning coffee in silence, smiling at the new day.
Now I wonder: what if she’s right? Her words stirred me deeply. I’ve watched acquaintances age in solitude, despite having children, their hopes dashed as grown-up sons and daughters forget to call. Yet here she was, at 70—expecting no assistance, not dwelling on the past, not yearning for what wasn’t. She’s free, like a breeze over the Thames, and content, unlike anyone I’ve known.
What do you think about this? Do you agree with her choice? Her life challenges stereotypes, proving happiness lies not in children but in listening to oneself. I left the clinic with her smile etched in my memory and the thought: is it time I stopped fearing my desires? She regrets nothing, and that compels me to reassess all I believed in.
