A MOTHER’S HOPE
“Mum, the only way left for us to have a child is IVF. Cyril and I have made up our minds. There’s no talking us out of it—better get used to the idea,” Sophie said in one breath.
“IVF? So, I’ll have a grandchild from a test tube?” I could scarcely believe what I was hearing from my own daughter.
“Call it what you like, Mum. We start the procedures tomorrow. All the tests are done. The doctors warned us—it’ll be a long and uncertain road. No guarantees. Please, just be patient.” Sophie sighed heavily.
I couldn’t find the words to reply. I ought to have offered comfort, hope, or at the very least, not stood in her way.
We had this conversation over the phone. I understood—Sophie couldn’t bear to say it face to face. The subject was too fraught.
Her first marriage had been to her childhood sweetheart, Alexander. Their love had seemed otherworldly—to Sophie, at least. But right there at their wedding reception, in the village hall, the groom, having drunk too much, ended up in a compromising embrace with the bridesmaid. Sophie found them in the dimly lit storage room.
Alexander, catching sight of his bride, fumbled for excuses; the bridesmaid snatched up her things, covering herself with a flimsy shawl, and fled. She wasn’t seen again that day.
Sophie filed for divorce. My husband and I begged her not to be rash.
“Sophie, don’t rush. People do foolish things when they’re drunk. That girl probably dragged him in there. He’s a good lad—she must’ve fancied what she couldn’t have. Forgive him, love. You’ve your whole life ahead. You’ll regret this.”
“No, Mum, I won’t. Alex has stung me where it hurts. But I won’t start married life with lies and betrayal. Thank God it happened on our wedding day—less heartache for me in the long run.” Sophie was resolute.
Alexander pleaded, apologised, repented—all in vain.
A few months later, it emerged Sophie was pregnant with his child. Without telling me, she quietly ended the pregnancy. Had I known, I’d have begged her to return to Alexander.
Time passed. Then came Cyril—Alexander’s best friend, who’d long carried a torch for Sophie but never dared cross his mate. Now, with fate’s cruel twist, he seized his chance.
Sophie didn’t accept him straight away. Once burned, she trusted no one. For three years, she wavered. Cyril never relented. Finally, she believed in the sincerity of his love.
“Cyril, does your proposal still stand?”
“Of course, my darling! Do you mean you’ll marry me?” He kissed her hand.
She nodded.
Overjoyed, Cyril threw a lavish wedding. All their friends came—save Alexander, though he sent an extravagant bouquet of lilies. Sophie refused it, handing the flowers to an unmarried friend instead.
She was twenty-eight then, Cyril thirty-three. Two years into their marriage, no children came.
“Sophie, have you and Cyril any plans, or is it just not happening?” I ventured carefully.
“It’s not happening, Mum. I’m starting to worry. Cyril won’t talk of it—I think he blames himself. We’ll wait another year, then…” She looked away.
“Then what? Adopt?”
“Time will tell. We’ll have a child, one way or another.” She smiled mysteriously.
“God willing! Your father and I ache for grandchildren.” I stroked her hair.
Two more years of trying, and Sophie told me of their decision—IVF. I was dead against it.
“Darling, they say those children have no souls, that they’re sickly, unnatural, that they can’t have children of their own—like machines.”
“Mum, the method’s forty years old. It’s used worldwide now. Many couples struggle with infertility. ‘Test-tube babies’ are just like any others—it’s just harder to bring them into the world. You’ve no idea the toll it’s taken on Cyril and me. But we’re doing it. Expect grandchildren—maybe even twins. The first IVF women went on to have natural pregnancies.” She was desperate to convince me.
I realised the die was cast. All I could do was hope, pray, and hold my tongue.
The path to parenthood proved costly, exhausting, gruelling. Sophie only conceived on the fourth attempt. The hormones left her bloated, her moods swinging wildly between hysteria and hollow laughter. Cyril grew thin, worn down by her tears, her irrational fears.
“Mum, I’m terrified to sneeze, to cough—what if I lose it? I couldn’t face a fifth try. I’m spent. And all because of that first abortion. What choice did I have? Now I’m paying for it.” She wiped bitter tears.
Twice, they escaped to the seaside—Cyril insisting she rest. At her lowest, she nearly threw herself from a window. He never left her side, his love unshaken.
“Cyril’s my rock, my safe harbour. Without him, I’d have broken.”
After eight months of strain and despair, little Emily arrived—early, as IVF babies often are.
Our family was overjoyed—though Cyril’s mother fretted over the child’s paternity.
“Son, what if she’s not yours? Look—her nose, her ears… nothing like you. Could the hospital have mixed them up?”
But as Emily grew, the resemblance became undeniable.
IVF children aren’t accidents. They’re longed for, fought for, cherished beyond measure. Their childhoods glow with love.
Yet trouble came. One afternoon, as I pushed Emily’s pram in the park, a nurse from the surgery called out:
“Hello, mums! And a special hello to the IVF granny!”
Heat rushed to my face. “Have you lost your mind? How dare you shout such things!”
The nurse faltered. “Oh! I—I thought everyone knew Emily was… different.”
“You’re right. She is—wonderfully so.” I took my granddaughter elsewhere.
After that, the neighbourhood buzzed with intrusive questions. Cyril and Sophie sold their flat and moved across town.
Emily’s five now—bright, cheeky, full of mischief. She adores nursery, bossing the other children about, spinning tall tales for her teachers.
Her health isn’t perfect—allergies, a lisp we’re correcting, slight shortsightedness. Such troubles aren’t uncommon, IVF or not.
What matters is this: after years of heartache, Sophie and Cyril have their miracle. And my husband and I? We couldn’t imagine life without our laughing, golden-haired girl.
