He knew he couldn’t have children… and he stayed silent. And I—I fought, I hoped, and I lost myself.
This story is my pain. Deep, searing, unending. We spent ten years together. A whole decade by the side of a man I thought was my future, my rock, the father of my children. And yet—he had been lying the entire time. He knew he could never be a father. And he said nothing.
For years, I raced between clinics, doctors, injections, hope and tears. And he just watched. Pretended everything was fine.
James and I had known each other since we were teenagers—we went to the same sixth form in Manchester. We met again years later, got swept up, fell in love, moved in together. He knew how badly I wanted a home and two kids. I talked about it from the first week we were together. He nodded, smiled, said he wanted the same. And me, the fool, believed him. Believed I’d found the one.
We had a modest but heartfelt wedding. Then we threw ourselves into our dream—buying a house. We worked like mad for a whole year, no breaks, no holidays, no weekends. Bought a little place in the outskirts. Old, with a wobbly fence and an overgrown garden. But we were full of energy—ready to fix it up, plant flowers, make it our cosy nest.
I said I didn’t want to wait for kids. That if we held off until the renovations were done, the windows replaced, the paths laid—we might miss our chance. Time doesn’t stop. James hesitated, said maternity leave would be hard on me, that he couldn’t manage alone. But I insisted. He gave in. Probably because he knew—he knew he’d never tell me the truth.
First year—nothing. Second—still nothing. I rushed to doctors, tests, treatments. They told me I was fine. Just needed some hormone adjustments, then I’d get pregnant. I followed the routines—timing meals, pills, ovulation. And still—nothing. Every delay felt like hope. Every month—tears.
I begged James to get checked. He brushed me off—”I’m fine. Men don’t have those problems.” But eventually, he went. Alone. Without me. Came back with a paper—”Healthy.” I believed it. What else could I do?
We kept trying. I hunted for the best specialists. Talked about IVF. And then he started pushing back—”It’s unnatural. I don’t want it. Let’s adopt.” But I wanted my own. My blood, my face, my heart. He kept dodging. I kept fighting.
Nine years into our life together, when the house was finally done, when everything seemed ready—just the children missing—I found a new clinic in London. Booked us both in. I insisted on fresh tests. He resisted. In the car on the way, we argued. I screamed, demanded he tell me what was really wrong. He stayed silent.
Then, in the doctor’s office, when I was already breaking down sobbing, he finally said it—
“I can’t have children. I’ve known from the start.”
The world tipped. I couldn’t believe it. I screamed. Stared into his eyes and couldn’t understand—how could he? How could he watch me, month after month, waiting, hoping, crying, clinging to that hope—and say nothing? Not for a month. For years.
It was betrayal. Worse than any affair. He didn’t just lie—he stole years from me. The most important ones. The fertile ones. I didn’t forgive. And I won’t. The next day, I packed my things and left. Filed for divorce.
He calls, texts, turns up at my sister’s. Wants to “talk.” But I don’t even want to see him. If he’d told me the truth from the start—we could’ve faced it. Together. Right away. Instead, he chose the lie. Ice-cold, slow, stretched over a decade. I’m not the same person coming out of this. And I know one thing for sure—better a bitter truth up front than a sweet lie that eats you alive.
