We were celebrating Easter at my brother-in-law’s parents’ new bungalow. Laughter echoed through the open-concept home as about twenty family members gathered in the large kitchen, chatting, teasing, and lending a hand with the food. It was a joyful occasion—my sister and her husband had just welcomed their first baby, and he was only three months old. The energy was warm, filled with the familiar comfort of family, shared memories, and the excitement of new beginnings.
Suddenly, the baby started to cry. “I’ll just take him to the living room,” I told my sister, who was in mid-conversation about the highs and challenges of being a new mom. As I held him, his tiny body nestled against me, and almost immediately, he relaxed and drifted off to sleep. It was a quiet victory—my sister could continue her conversation uninterrupted, and I felt that distinct, almost magical sense of fulfillment that comes from soothing a crying baby.
In the living room, only a few relatives were chatting quietly. Their conversations fell away as everyone turned their attention to the serene little boy in my arms. It was a moment of pure wonder, until my grandmother’s voice broke the hush.
“I am just so sad you have such a gift with kids and you will never have a baby of your own,” she said.
There was no hesitation in her words—only certainty. In a single sentence, she had assessed my life—single, 36, unmarried—and pronounced my childless fate. Her words stung like a sudden slap. My pulse quickened, my face grew warm, and for a moment, I felt unmoored. I planted my feet firmly in the plush white carpet, forcing myself to appear calm and collected. I knew that ever since her stroke, my grandmother had lost some of her social filter, speaking exactly what she felt. But even knowing that, my thoughts spiraled.
All I wanted was to run. Instead, I excused myself and went to the main floor washroom. I turned on the faucet, letting the sound of running water try to drown out the harsh echoes of her words in my mind. I found myself reflecting on my life—what had gone right, what had gone wrong, and how I had ended up here.
I had thought I’d done everything “right.” I got engaged at 30, married at 31, and by 32, we were ready to start a family. But then he told me he wanted to put having a baby on hold. By 34, our marriage had ended in divorce. I tried dating, but I held myself back, afraid of making the wrong choice again. I wanted a partner who shared my dream of children, and I wanted it to feel right.
If you had asked me even two years ago whether I would ever consider having a baby on my own, I would have said no—definitely not. Yet here I was, standing in that bathroom, realizing that perhaps this was exactly what I needed to do. After two IUIs using donor sperm, I am now pregnant with my little boy, due February 19th, 2020.
Just last week, my grandmother sat across from me in her recliner as I rested my hands on my baby bump. “You look so happy,” she said softly. And she was right.
I’m certain she has no idea how much her Easter comment affected me, or perhaps she doesn’t even remember it. But in that moment, her words lit a fire inside me—a determination that I was strong, capable, and fully able to be a mother, even on my own. As her health continues to decline, I hope with all my heart she will be here in February, when I can present her with my little boy. I can already imagine her eyes, wide and glistening, taking in both of us.
And thank you, Grandma. Because even in the bluntest, hardest of ways, your words showed me the strength I never fully believed I had. I am one strong, powerful mother—and soon, I will be holding the living proof of that truth in my arms.
