When I was just twenty-six, I thought I had my life all figured out. I had a partner whom I’d been living with for three years and a son—a lively little toddler who had just turned two. We weren’t married, but we lived like a family, sharing the same house, the same bed, the same responsibilities. I dreamed of having a second child, of a peaceful happiness filled with children’s laughter and the smell of pancakes in the morning. But life doesn’t always follow the script we want it to…
A few months after my son was born, I found out that I was pregnant again. It was unexpected, and despite my fears, I was overjoyed—it felt like a blessing! But that joy was short-lived. After my first C-section, this new pregnancy was deemed dangerous. The doctors were clear—if I chose to go through with it, I might not survive the childbirth. One doctor looked me straight in the eye and told me, “You can keep the baby, but you risk not making it home.” So, I made the hard decision to have an abortion.
After the procedure, I struggled to recover, not so much physically, but emotionally. It was like something inside me had burnt out. I didn’t receive any sympathy or support from my child’s father. He didn’t ask me a single question. He just said, “If that’s how it is, then so be it,” as if we were talking about buying a new fridge, not life and death. That’s when I realized: I was alone in this pain. Completely alone.
In the evenings, I started going into chat rooms—not to flirt, but just to distract myself, to feel alive, to feel a bit needed. At first, it was just mindless chatter, standard compliments, suggestive remarks—the kind of thing that made me want to log out immediately. But one night, around midnight, he messaged me. A stranger. His words were warm and sincere, without a hint of inappropriateness, just genuine kindness. I stayed in the chat longer than usual. He asked if I was on Facebook. Initially, I refused—I didn’t want to open up to a complete stranger. But he convinced me, without pressuring or rushing me, that he was interested not in my body, but in my mind.
The next morning, I told him I was going on a trip and would be passing through his city for about thirty minutes. He was at work, but promised to meet up for at least five minutes. And he did. He stepped out of his car, smiled, hugged me like an old friend, and left. No hints, no questions, no expectations. Just a look that stayed with me.
That evening at home, I saw his message again. We started talking every day, like we’d known each other forever. A week later, we met again. This time, not just for five minutes. This time, we spent time alone. Everything happened. And I thought: well, that’s it. Typical. The man got what he wanted and would disappear. But the next day, he reached out first. He wanted to meet again. He said he wanted to see me, just to be with me. We booked a hotel. I didn’t want to bring him to where I lived with my child’s father.
Two weeks have passed since then. And I feel it—I’m falling in love. Truly. My heart races wildly when he calls. I smile like a schoolgirl when I hear his voice. I want everything with him: morning coffee, road trips, late-night conversations. I wanted to live again.
But now I’m scared. What if he falls for me deeply? What if he eventually wants to start a family with me, have a child? How do I tell him that I can’t have kids? That the doctor has forbidden me from having children because I might not survive?
I’m terrified of confessing. I don’t want to break what’s just begun. I don’t want to be alone again. I’m not sure he’ll understand. Men want heirs. They want the woman they love to give them a son or a daughter. And I can’t…
Sometimes I think—maybe it’s better to leave now. Before it’s too late. Before I’m too deep into this feeling. But then he sends a voice message saying, “Good morning, beautiful,” and all my resolve crumbles like a house of cards.
What should I do? How do I tell a man I’m starting to love that I can’t give him a child? Should I fear the truth if my heart has already made its choice?
