Anonymous

I became a childless stepparent. When I joined the little family of my husband and his then three-year-old daughter I was brimming with hope that one day I would have a child of our own. A sister or brother for her. I was 33. My husband has three older brothers and a younger sister. The boys had teenagers so there was catching up to do. My sister and brother have no children, so I wanted to make my own mother and father grandparents. I threw myself into my new ready-made family. I cooked, I decorated, I organised, and I accepted the time my husband needed to be a good father. When my stepdaughter gained a new sister, I was ashamed to feel so jealous but still hopeful it would be my turn someday. I was 35, worried but there was time. Little did I know that time had already run out. A diagnosis eventually at 38 of unexplained infertility would result in failed treatments and heartbreak for….me.

My husband has always tried to understand but the reality of being a father means he will never know what I feel. He is not on the same path as I am on. Dealing with the grief of not being a parent is one I must face alone. I have watched their relationship from the outside. People think I am like him to her, but I am not. I never tried to be a parent to her either. I respect her boundaries and her needs. I witness the love they share, the closeness. I am present at the milestones, birthdays, Holy Communion, Christmas, first day at school, last day at school, holidays. I know what I am missing out on. I love the father he is. The pain of not sharing this gift with him is hard. I feel jealous of the experience he has only had with another woman. I know my place in this family. I am his partner; I support him in his role as a father. In becoming a childless stepparent, I have had to face this reality. It makes me angry, sad, resentful, and different.

I retreat. I find in moments of solitude I hurt less. This causes confusion. Why do I not want to spend time with them like before? This is grief. I must find a way through and sometimes that means I need to look after my needs. Just my needs.

I find it frustrating when people upon hearing me speak of my sadness offer me the consolation that at least I have her. Or even appear confused I have any grief at all. So, I should be satisfied with being on the outside, to not feel loss, sadness, and despair because I never had anything to begin with? This is disenfranchised grief. This is the invisibility of being a childless stepparent.