He wanted a child at any cost, and to him, I was just a failed experiment.
I struggled for a long time to tell this story. Perhaps because somewhere deep down, the ache still lingers, even though my life has long since found its footing. This is a tale of love that couldn’t withstand fate’s cruelty, of a marriage where expectations crushed affection, and of a man for whom fatherhood mattered more than the woman he married.
I never dreamed of being a mother—not in my youth, not at twenty, not at thirty. I had other ambitions: my career, travel, growth. My life was rich, and I never felt something was missing. Until I met William.
With him… everything shifted. His warmth, his care, the way he looked at me—I truly believed I’d found my person. We married quickly, but it wasn’t reckless. We vowed to build a life together, bound by love and trust.
The early months were bliss. William was kind, attentive—so attuned to me, he’d answer a thought before I spoke it. But then came the subject that poisoned everything: a child.
Anxiety crept in—why wasn’t I conceiving? William soothed me, *”It’ll happen, don’t worry.”* But months passed. Negative test after negative test. Soon, intimacy wasn’t about love anymore. It was a task. A duty. Mechanical, cold—every touch calculated for one purpose. I felt no joy, no closeness, only guilt and exhaustion.
We pretended everything was fine. But every new cycle was another blow. William withdrew, silent and brooding, until he suggested seeing a specialist. I agreed. Tests, consultations, invasive procedures—and then the words *”assisted reproduction.”* Without hesitation, he said, *”Whatever it takes.”*
When the doctor confirmed the issue was mine, the rift opened. He never comforted me—only irritation in his eyes, as if I’d stolen something from him.
Because he didn’t just want *a* child. He was raised in a loud, bustling family; fatherhood was his birthright. He wanted a *son*—someone to carry his name, to prove his manhood. And me? I was just the vessel that had failed him.
We tried IVF. Twice. Both failed. The hormones, the pain—I was hollowed out. After the second attempt, I whispered, *”I can’t do this anymore.”* He barely reacted. Days later, when I tentatively mentioned adoption, his rage cut like glass: *”I don’t want a bloody consolation prize!”*
That’s when I understood. It wasn’t fatherhood he craved—it was blood. His pride wouldn’t let him love another man’s child. And me? I was no longer his wife, just a defect. A faulty product.
The arguments grew bitter. The silence choked. Then, one evening, he said, *”I’ve thought about it. We can’t be happy like this. We should end it.”*
The words shattered me. I begged him to leave that same night. He did. I was alone—no child, no husband, discarded like broken furniture. That night, I lay on the floor, numb, unable to scream. Something inside me died.
It took months and therapy to feel alive again. I realized: he didn’t leave because I couldn’t give him a child. He left because life dared to defy his script. He never loved *me*—he loved the idea of a perfect family, his name passed on, his legacy secure. I was just a means to that end.
When the grief faded, I saw the truth: his love was conditional. *”If you bear my child, if you meet my needs, if you perform.”* But I refuse to perform anymore.
Now, there’s James. A man who knows what matters. He has two children from his first marriage, and when I confessed my infertility, he barely blinked. *”So?”* he said, pulling me close. *”I don’t need a mother for my kids—I need* you. *Be happy. That’s all I want.”*
I believe him. Because with him, I’m *me*—no shame, no guilt. Just peace. And if fate decided I wouldn’t be a mother? Fine. It doesn’t make me less of a woman.
I *am* a woman.
And I deserve happiness—on my own terms.