“Had a child when you’re nearly fifty! What were you thinking?” my family scolded over the phone.
I was forty-six. A month ago, I gave birth to twinsa little boy named Oliver and a girl called Evelyn. Words cannot describe what I feel when I look at them. Happiness, joy, tears, warmthit swells inside me till I think I might burst.
Yet neither my mother nor my own sister came to see me when I left the hospital. My husbands relatives ignored the birth of our children too, all because of our age.
I never thought much about children when I was young, truth be told. I was carefree, dancing in clubs, sipping cocktails, surrounded by admirers. What more could a girl want? My heart sang with joy in those days.
Then, at twenty-two, I met William. Handsome, bearded, with those ridiculous glasses and the sharpest wit. Women flocked to him, yet he chose me. I wont lieit did wonders for my confidence. He had a flat, a car, a family business. His parents owned several clothing shops in London and made good money.
I thought Id found my knight in shining armour. William was my ticket to a happy, easy life. I dreamed of weddings, a beautiful dress, a honeymoon in Egypt.
But to him, I was just a passing fancy. I stayed at his place for a month before he changed the locks and tossed my things outwhile I was at the salon getting my nails done! All he said was, “Were from different worlds. Youre not the one.” As if I were an old boot, not a woman at all!
The heartbreak nearly destroyed me. I lost two stone, wandered about like a ghost. My hair fell out in clumps; I wore wigs or hats to hide it. My health suffered terriblysuch sudden weight loss wreaked havoc on my body. I had surgeries, took medicines, even tried those herbal remedies. Nothing worked.
So I threw myself into work. Id always loved painting nails, so I trained as a manicurist. Thankfully, clients came, and they paid well. I took out a loan, bought a modest two-bedroom flat, then saved up for a car. By thirty-three, Id opened my own beauty salon, with a few young girls working under me.
Then, two years ago, I met Edward. He worked nearby, wandered in one day to break a twenty-pound noteand just like that, I fell in love again. We moved in together quickly, married soon after, and of course, we spoke of children.
Nothing happenedage had taken its toll. So I turned to IVF. I prayed every night, begging God to grant me a child, to let me be the mother I longed to be.
And He heard me. I gave birth to two healthy babies, the delivery smooth as anything.
“Have you lost your mind? Children at your age? What were you thinking?” my mother snapped over the phone.
“Good Lord, Ill be a grandmother soon, and youre having babies? Youre too old for this!” my sister shrieked.
Not a single relative stood by us. Outside the hospital, only Edward and a photographer waited. We took a few keepsake pictures and went home.
The babies are a month old now. Neither my mother nor my sister will visit. They say Ive shamed them before the whole town, daring to have children at my age.
But is it a crime to want a family? Was I wrong to wish for this?
