“Why have another child when I already have a son?” Those words from my husband shattered my heart.
When I married Andrew, I was aware that he had a child from his previous marriage. At the time, I truly believed this wouldn’t pose an issue for us. I thought it would just mean occasional visits, child support, and a few phone calls on weekends. I wasn’t naive, but I also never imagined that his child would become a barrier to having my own.
Charlie, Andrew’s son, entered our lives not long ago, but his presence was overwhelming and unavoidable. His mother, Andrew’s ex-wife, stepped back from parenting. Officially, he resides with her, and she receives the child support, but in reality, he lives with us. His things occupy an entire room in our flat, which is a cramped two-bedroom place. Andrew even built a partition to make it seem like we have three rooms. In truth, it’s tight, noisy, and lacking any real comfort.
I’m 33 years old, and I’ve been through a marriage previously, but I have no children. I’ve always dreamed of being a mother—experiencing the journey from the first kicks to school plays. To hold my little one, not someone else’s. To hear them call me mum. I’m not infertile; I’m healthy. Yet, it’s as if Andrew has put up a wall around this dream. He says he doesn’t see the need for another child when he already has Charlie. He tells me, “There’s no need to sacrifice your figure, your health, or your time—after all, there’s Charlie.”
But I don’t want “there’s Charlie.” I want my baby. An infant, not a five-year-old who behaves as though the world owes him everything. He doesn’t listen, he’s rude, he throws things, throws tantrums, and can strike out. He’s perpetually discontent, filled with jealousy and openly shows that I’m a stranger to him. And I am; I have no feelings for him—no maternal instincts, not even warm ones.
Andrew thinks “we can fix him together.” He believes I should accept Charlie as my own. But that’s just it—I don’t want to. Love isn’t something that just turns on with a flick. I’m not the woman who’s raised him since birth. I’m not his mum. I don’t want to pretend.
When I brought up the idea of having a child of my own, Andrew simply shrugged it off, saying, “You knew what you were getting into. I already have a son. That’s enough.”
Enough? For whom? For him? For his mother, who now expects me to show Charlie affection and understanding, while treating my request for the right to my motherhood as a whim?
“Love Andrew, then love Charlie too,” I hear from my mother-in-law. But why does no one ask about me? Am I loved? Does anyone consider my feelings, my desires, my needs? Or am I just supposed to quietly accept the “ready-made package” without even the right to maternal instincts?
I’ve tried. I made dinners for Charlie, picked him up from nursery, read him stories. But I did it out of obligation, not love. It was automatic, devoid of soul. And with each passing day, I feel resentment bubbling up inside me. Not towards the boy—he’s caught in a tug-of-war between two parents. But towards Andrew. His indifference. The way he disregards my dreams as mere noise.
When I told Andrew I could accept Charlie but only if we also have a child together, he looked at me as if I were mad. “Why complicate life when we can just live?” he said. But I don’t want to just “live.” I want to be a mother. A real one. Not a stand-in, not temporary, not a “replacement.”
Maybe I am selfish. Maybe I’m not ready for what they call “the wisdom of a woman.” But I refuse to live sacrificing my own desires for someone else’s mistakes. I love Andrew. I am fighting for our marriage. But I can’t surrender my motherhood for his past.
I am not obligated to have children if I don’t want to. But if I do desire it—no one has the right to tell me otherwise. Not even my beloved husband. If he can’t understand this—perhaps I will have to choose between a life as a forever stepmother and the right to be a true mother.