“Why have another child when I already have a son?” — those words from my husband shattered my heart.
As I married Andrew, I understood he had a child from his previous marriage. At that time, I truly believed this wouldn’t pose any issues for us. I thought it would be limited to occasional visits, child support, and a few phone calls on weekends. I had no illusions but couldn’t foresee that his child would ever become a barrier to having my own.
Nicolas — Andrew’s son — entered our lives not long ago, but he did so rapidly and intrusively. His mother, Andrew’s ex-wife, has distanced herself from parenting. Officially, he lives with her, collects child support from her, yet the boy actually resides with us. His belongings occupy an entire room in our small apartment, where Andrew has put up a partition to pretend we have three rooms. In reality, it’s cramped, noisy, and devoid of any coziness.
I’m 33 years old. I’ve also been married before, but there were no children. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a mother — to experience everything from feeling those first kicks to attending school performances. To hold my own child, not someone else’s. To hear him call me “Mum.” I’m not infertile; I’m perfectly healthy. But my husband, like a stone wall, has shut me off from that dream. He says he doesn’t see the point in us having another child when he already has Nicolas. He insists, “You don’t need to sacrifice your figure, your health, or your time — because we already have Nicolas.”
But I don’t want “already have.” I want my own. A baby, not a five-year-old brat who acts like the world owes him a favour. He doesn’t listen, he’s rude, throws things, throws tantrums, and can hit. Everything is always wrong for him; he’s envious and possessive, not hiding the fact that I’m an outsider. And I truly am an outsider. I have no feelings for him. Neither maternal nor even warm.
Andrew believes that “we can fix him together.” He thinks I should accept Nicolas as my own. But I don’t want to. I can’t just switch love on like a light. I’m not the woman who has been with him since birth. I’m not his mother. I don’t want to pretend.
When I brought up the topic of having a child, my husband simply shrugged:
“You knew who you were marrying. I already have a son. That’s enough.”
Enough? For whom? For you? For your mother, who now demands love and patience from me, while her look at my question about my right to motherhood is one of disdain?
“You loved Andrew; you should love Nicolas too,” I hear from my mother-in-law. But why does no one ask: what about me? Is there anyone who loves me? Does anyone think of my feelings, my desires, my needs? Or is my role merely to accept this “ready-made package,” with no right to maternal instinct?
I’ve tried. I’ve cooked for Nicolas, picked him up from preschool, read him stories. But I did it not out of love — purely out of duty. Like a robot. Without emotion. And each day, I feel resentment growing within me. Not towards the child — he may not be to blame for living in turmoil between two parents. But towards my husband. Towards his indifference. That my dreams mean nothing to him.
When I told Andrew I would accept Nicolas on the condition that we would have a child together, he just rolled his eyes. “Why complicate life,” he said, “when we can just live?” But I don’t want to “just live.” I want to be a mother. A real one. Not a placeholder, not temporary, not “for the time being.”
Perhaps I am selfish. Perhaps I’m not ready for what they call “woman’s wisdom.” But I refuse to live sacrificing myself for the mistakes of others. I love Andrew. I’m fighting for our marriage. But I cannot forfeit my motherhood for his past.
I don’t have to have a child if I don’t want to. But if I do want one — no one can restrict me from wanting that. Not even my beloved husband. And if he doesn’t understand that — perhaps I will have to make a choice. Between the role of a forever stepmother and the right to be a true mother.