I’m glad I chose not to have children. I’m 70, and I don’t regret it for a moment.
My name is Alice Smith, and I live in the quiet town of Oxford, draped in the history of Oxfordshire’s past. Recently, I made an appointment with a dermatologist and found myself sitting in the clinic’s hallway, waiting my turn. A woman sat next to me—elegant, with a gentle smile. As we began to chat, I didn’t realize how her words would completely shift my perspective on life. She wasn’t just pleasant to talk to but a person whose story made me reconsider what I had believed was unchangeable.
At first glance, I noticed her style: well-kept hands, a neat hairstyle, clothes that looked tailor-made. I assumed she was around 50, no older. During our conversation, she mentioned being over 70. I was stunned—there was no trace of wrinkles or weariness in her eyes. Unlike her peers, hunched under the weight of years and worries, she radiated life and vibrancy. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
She shared her life story with an open, almost luminous honesty. Twice married, and now alone. Her first marriage, with John, ended when they were young. The reason was simple yet harsh: she didn’t want children. He knew from the start—she dreamed of a marriage without nappies and prams. But after turning 30, he began to push, saying, “A full family means children; it’s time to think about it.” Her heart stayed silent, never awakening to the maternal instinct. She stood firm as a rock: to have children against her will would be to betray herself. They had heartfelt talks, but their paths diverged—divorce was easier than living a lie.
Her second marriage was to Michael, a divorced man with a daughter from his first. He didn’t want more children, which drew them closer. They lived harmoniously, never touching upon the subject of children. Michael even appreciated that she shared his views. But fate took a different turn: he died in a car accident. Left alone, her solitude became her freedom. “I’m happy,” she told me, looking into my eyes. “I don’t have to conform to anyone; I live for myself.” There was no hint of regret in her voice, only strength and peace.
She mentioned her friends, who spent their lives hoping their children would provide meaning. Now, they only sigh as their sons and daughters have grown and flown, leaving them with emptiness. “Children don’t really need us in our old age,” she said. “I realized it long ago and never wanted to have them.” Her life was full: travel, books, morning walks by the river. The absence of children wasn’t a void but wings that kept her afloat.
“What about the glass of water in old age?” I asked, recalling the old saying. She laughed: “I won’t die of thirst or illness. While others spent everything on their kids, I saved up. Now, I’ve enough to hire help when I need it.” Her words were a challenge—not to society, but to the fear that life without children is meaningless. At 70, she’s thriving, living for herself, not waiting for gratitude from others.
I watched her and thought: how often do we limit ourselves, fearing judgment? She chose her path—without children’s voices in her home, without sleepless nights and nappies, and this choice set her free. Her story was like a mirror: I saw in it a woman who didn’t succumb to the pressure to fulfill supposed obligations. Her first husband left, the second died, but she didn’t break—she built a life where she flourished alone. Her friends lament indifferent children, while she enjoys her morning coffee in peace, smiling at the new day.
Now I ask myself: what if she’s right? Her words resonated deeply. I’ve seen friends age alone despite having children, their hopes crumbling when adult sons and daughters forget to call. But she, at 70, doesn’t wait for help, doesn’t live in the past, doesn’t yearn for what never was. She’s as free as the wind over the River Thames and as happy as no one else I know.
What do you think about this? Do you agree with such a choice? Her life is a challenge to stereotypes, proving that happiness doesn’t lie in children but in listening to oneself. I left the clinic with her smile etched in my memory, pondering: perhaps it’s time I stopped fearing my desires as well? She regrets nothing, and it makes me reconsider everything I’ve believed in.
