At forty-four, I found myself pregnant and single, utterly unsure of what to do next.
I live alone now. My children are long grown, each with their own families, homes, and worries. Yes, I’m already a grandmother. My husband and I split years ago, though we never officially divorced—waiting, we said, until the kids were settled, educated, standing on their own two feet. The moment that happened, he left. Found himself a younger, freer, livelier woman. He’d had enough of our quiet, predictable life, my silences, the routine.
I don’t blame him. Really. If I’d had someone else back then, I might’ve done the same. But I never cheated, not once. I stayed within the lines—for the family, for the kids. And now, when I’m finally free, when I should be living for myself, I’m left feeling invisible. My ex and I keep up polite small talk, mostly about the grandkids. But, truth be told, we’ve both moved on in our own ways.
I hoped my children would visit more, but that rarely happens. They’ve got their own lives, and I don’t resent them—so long as they’re happy. Still, the quiet in my flat grows heavier. Lonely dinners, solitary breakfasts… I’ve started losing sight of who I am.
Then, when a man came into my life, I didn’t resist. He was kind, warm, made no promises—and that felt honest. With him, I remembered I was a woman. Started wearing brighter colours, smiling, catching my reflection with curiosity. For a while, I felt alive. But it ended as suddenly as it began. He vanished without a word. Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
I’m forty-four. Single. And expecting a baby.
The decision was instinctive—no planning, no weighing options. I just knew I couldn’t have an abortion. Not morally, not in my heart. But alongside that certainty grew terror. What kind of life will this child have? What about me? Can I carry to term at my age? Will the birth be safe? What will the doctors say? The neighbours?
I won’t tell the father. He left—clearly, he doesn’t want this. The responsibility is mine alone. My life. My choice. Even so, fear lingers.
Financially, it’ll be tight. My pension and a bit of freelance work barely cover things as it is. Savings? Nearly nonexistent. Questions about prams, nappies, prescriptions pile up faster than I can answer them. But more than anything, I feel this baby will give my life purpose again. I’ll love them fiercely. Learn from my past mistakes.
Yet the doubt creeps in. Will they be ashamed of having an older mum? Will I live to see their graduation? What if I fall ill? What if I can’t keep up?
When my daughters found out, they were horrified. No support, just shock. The youngest cried; the eldest shouted. They insist I won’t cope, that I should be doting on grandkids, not raising another child. That I’m selfish, reckless, risking my life and theirs.
*”Mum, have you lost it? At your age! Your heart, your blood pressure!”* That’s my eldest talking.
They push for termination, brandishing articles, doctors’ warnings, statistics. Say I’m dooming us all.
I’m torn between fear and faith, logic and longing. Inside me, this tiny life persists—quiet, fragile, but stubborn. And I know if I let it go, I’ll be hollow forever.
But if I keep it, I’ll be alone. No backing. No approval. Just my daughters’ disdain and the weight of an uncertain future.
I don’t know what to do. Don’t know if I’m strong enough. But one thing’s certain—this isn’t just a surprise. It’s a test. A chance. Maybe my last one.
