When I was just twenty-six, I thought my life was already set. I had been living with a man for three years, and we had a son—a small, mischievous little lad who had just turned two. We weren’t married, but we lived as a family, sharing a home, a bed, and our concerns. I dreamed of having another child, hoping for a quiet happiness where children’s laughter filled the house, and the kitchen smelled of pancakes in the morning. But life doesn’t always follow the script you write for it.
A few months after my son was born, I became pregnant again. I found out by chance and, despite my fear, I was happy—it felt like a blessing. But my joy was short-lived. After my first C-section, this new pregnancy was deemed risky. The doctors were blunt—if I decided to go through with it, I might not survive the birth. One particularly straightforward doctor looked me directly in the eyes and said, “You can keep the baby, but you risk not coming home.” I chose to have an abortion.
Afterwards, I struggled to recover—not so much physically as emotionally. It felt like a fire had burned out inside me. I received no sympathy or support from my child’s father. He didn’t ask me a single question. He just said, “If that’s the way it is, then that’s the way it is,” as if it was nothing more than buying a new fridge. That’s when I understood: in this pain, I was alone. Completely alone.
In the evenings, I started visiting a chatroom. Not to flirt—I just wanted a distraction, to feel alive, a little needed. Initially, it was full of empty talk, routine compliments, and crude innuendos—everything that made me want to sign off immediately. But one night, around midnight, I received a message from him. A stranger. His words were warm and simple, not a trace of crudeness, just sincerity. I stayed in the chat longer than usual. He asked if I had Facebook. I initially refused—I wasn’t ready to open up to someone I just met. But he persisted, gently convincing me that he was interested in my thoughts, not my appearance.
The next morning, I told him I’d be passing through his town for half an hour on a tour. He was at work, but promised to meet me, even if only for five minutes. And he did. He got out of his car, smiled, and hugged me like an old friend. Then he left. No innuendos, no questions, no expectations. Just the look in his eyes, which stayed with me.
That evening, I saw his message again. He kept writing to me. We started talking every day, as if we’d known each other forever. A week later, we met again. This time, not for just five minutes. We ended up alone together. Everything happened. And I thought: this is it. As usual, a man gets what he wants and will vanish. But the next day, he messaged me first. He wanted to meet again. Said he wanted to see me, just to be near. We booked a hotel. I didn’t want to bring him to the place I shared with my child’s father.
It’s been two weeks since then. And I feel myself genuinely falling in love. My heart races when he calls. I smile like a schoolgirl when I hear his voice. I want everything with him: coffee in the morning, trips together, midnight conversations. I felt like living again.
But now, I’m scared. What if he truly falls for me? What if he wants to start a family, have a child with me? How will I tell him that I can’t have children? That the doctor forbade it because it could be the end of me?
I’m terrified to admit it. I don’t want to destroy what has just begun. I don’t want to be alone again. I’m not sure he will understand. Men want heirs. They want the woman they love to give them a son or daughter. And I can’t…
Sometimes I think I should leave now. Before it’s too late. Before I’m in too deep with this feeling. But then he sends a voice message just saying, “Good morning, beautiful,” and my resolve collapses like a house of cards.
What should I do? How do I tell the man I’m starting to love that I can’t give him a child? Is it worth fearing the truth if my heart has already made its choice?
