When I was just twenty-six, I thought my life was already set. I had a partner I’d been living with for three years and a little boy—cheeky, playful, and only recently turned two. We weren’t married, but we lived as a family—sharing a home, a bed, and life’s ups and downs. I dreamed of having another child, of a quiet happiness filled with the sound of children’s laughter and the smell of pancakes in the kitchen every morning. But life doesn’t always follow the script you write…
A few months after my son was born, I found out I was pregnant again. It was a surprise, and despite being scared, I was thrilled—it felt like a blessing. But my joy was short-lived. After my first C-section, the new pregnancy was risky. The doctors were direct—if I decided to have the baby, I might not survive the birth. One particularly blunt specialist looked me in the eye and said, “You could keep the baby, but you might not make it home.” So, I chose to have an abortion.
After the procedure, I struggled to recover—not so much physically, but emotionally. It felt like everything inside me had burned out. I didn’t get any sympathy or support from my son’s father. He didn’t even ask me any questions. He just said, “If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is,” as though it was about buying a new fridge, not a matter of life and death. That’s when I realized: I was alone in this pain. Completely alone.
I began spending my evenings in chat rooms. Not looking for flirtation—just wanting to feel alive and needed, even if only a little. Initially, it was just empty conversations, routine compliments, crude hints—things that made me want to log off immediately. But one night, around midnight, a stranger messaged me. His words were warm and simple, without any crudeness, just sincerity. I ended up staying in the chat longer than usual. He asked if I had Facebook. I was hesitant at first—didn’t want to bare my soul to a stranger. But he was gentle, didn’t push or rush—merely convinced me he was interested in what was inside my head, not my body.
The next morning, I told him I’d be passing through his town for a short stop on a trip. He was at work but promised to come by even if only for five minutes. And he did. He got 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, there was another message from him. We started chatting daily, like we’d known each other forever. A week later, we met again. This time, it wasn’t for just five minutes. This time, we spent some real time together. Everything happened. And I thought: that’s it. Like usual. A man gets what he wants and vanishes. But the next day, he messaged first. He suggested meeting again. Said he wanted to see me, just be near me. We booked a hotel. I didn’t want to bring him to the place I shared with my son’s father.
It’s been two weeks since then. And I feel it—I’m falling in love. Truly. My heart races when he calls. I smile like a schoolgirl when I hear his voice. I want everything with him: morning coffee, road trips, midnight chats. Suddenly, I wanted to live again.
But now I’m scared. What if he falls in love with me truly? What if one day he wants a family with me, wants to have a child? How do I tell him that I can’t be a mother again? That the doctor has forbidden it because I might not survive?
I’m terrified of telling him. I don’t want to ruin what’s only just begun. I don’t want to be alone again. I’m unsure if he’ll understand. Men want heirs. They want the woman they love to bear 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 in too deep with these feelings. 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 confess to the man I’m starting to love that I can’t give him a child? Is it worth fearing the truth if the heart has already made its choice?
