Katherine Lyddon

Sharp, spikey, painful to touch
Difficult to lift, to hold, to carry
Yet I carry it everywhere I go.
It’s black and grey and the colour rubs off onto my clothes
Or any surface I put the rock down on.
Its size has grown over the years as my children have not.

My children don’t get to be planned for
Their conception doesn’t get to be remembered
Their existence doesn’t show on a scan
I don’t get to tell the secret to the father or my parents or my best friend
I don’t get to post the good news for everyone to see on Facebook.

My children don’t have a birth story, a first feed story
A first nappy, first smile, first food, first tooth, first step story
I don’t get to join in when other women share these stories in conversations.
They think I can’t possibly understand their sleepless nights or worry over child illness
Because I am not a real woman, I am childless.

My children don’t get named on a birth certificate
Or remembered when I’m gone
My children don’t get to be spoiled by my mum and Dad
And I don’t get the chance to give my parents the joy of being grandparents
My children will never play with their cousins
And I don’t get to invite everyone to my children’s birthday parties.

My children will never get to experience nursery, school, college or university
And I don’t get to be there for them, as their mum, when they encounter successes and difficulties.
My children don’t get to grow up and become their dreams
I don’t get to be a grandparent (another round of conversations I am left out of).

I have 43 years of love built up ready to give to my children.
I have given away tonnes of love to other people’s children
Hundreds as a teacher, tens to friends, eight as Godparent
But I still have just as much love left for my unbegot ones.
I don’t know where to pour out this love when I never got to be a mum.