I don’t often feel sad about being childless any more, but recently I was floored by, of all things, my goddaughter’s shoes. She took them off on my doorstep to come into the house and tears came into my eyes. Just a little pair of children’s shoes. I followed her into the house, but the image of those shoes, and the feel of tears in my eyes didn’t leave me. I couldn’t understand why.
And then, a few days later, I saw a little girl in the supermarket with intricate plaits in her hair, and I felt it again, the sadness. Once again, there were tears in my eyes. I brushed them away. I tried to work out why.
When I wanted to become a Mum, when I thought it was going to be possible, I remember asking a friend if she would show me how to do French plaits for my little girl. She said yes, said it would be easy.
But I never had the chance to do it. Never had the chance to buy a pair of shoes for my daughter, to choose the clothes she would wear that day, to brush and plait her hair. And I never will.
No wonder I was sad. No wonder I cried.
When the big crises are past, when I know I am living my best life, the best life I can with what has been given me, it is the little things that seem to hurt, the little moments I won’t – can’t – know, that my Mum friends seem to take for granted.
‘I will never,’ ‘I can never,’ these are the words that make me gasp with pain still.
All I can do is breathe them in, breathe the pain out, name my hurts and accept them.
It’s all I can do.
It’s a lot.
It’s enough.
Anonymous
Photo by serjan midili on Unsplash