Heartbreak

by Admin

After a few years of post-college freedom, I became exhausted and realized I wanted a family by 25. So, I gave up my life as a single woman and took a leap into the world of dating apps. I found him—the perfect man. He was handsome, financially stable, intelligent, and accomplished. He wanted to save the world, just like I did. He already had a son, a five-year-old who was as adorable and bright as his father. I fell in love, hard.

It wasn’t easy. He had a very enmeshed relationship with his ex-wife, who he was still married to, despite being separated for four years. He’d only been in one relationship since their separation. I was finishing grad school and juggling an internship. I wasn’t prepared to have a family, but I wanted one more than anything in the world.

A year later, we moved in together, and I met his son. I imagine a swirl of emotions overwhelmed him, as it did me, but they eventually settled. I loved him deeply, and I cared for him as if he were my own. I uprooted my life twice, moving across the country for them—my new family. I gave up opportunities, my own stability, for them. And then, by some stroke of luck, I would add my own child to the mix.

But things shifted. He said I couldn’t choose my child over our family of three—his family of three. The words hit like a knife. It felt like the greatest betrayal, a cruel contradiction to everything we had built. The hormones made it hard to think, but deep down, I knew: I was already a mother, and I wanted to deepen that connection, to fully embrace what motherhood could mean.

We had everything: a large farmhouse, an acre of land, good schools, and family nearby. We had two careers, a shared future. I was 26, and yet, the weight of it all was suffocating.

He said, “If you continue down this path, I will disappear from your life. You’ll never hear from me again.”

It didn’t make sense. I didn’t make a choice. Instead, I spent weeks violently vomiting, torn between what my heart wanted and what I felt I was being forced to give up. The hospitals were booked out for months. Every time I called for help, I was advised to speak with a doctor who would, in turn, tell me there was no appointment available—simply to cover their tracks, to push through the bureaucracy of a system driven by profit over care.

The only nourishment I could get was through an IV. Slowly, the placenta detached. My child was slipping away from me—or maybe I just couldn’t take care of it anymore. The pregnancy ended in an emergency room, where my vitals showed I was teetering dangerously close to sepsis. It all happened so fast, and by the end of the night, I could eat again.

But the remnants, the echoes of what had been, stayed behind. Three weeks later, I underwent another procedure to remove what was left.

I spent months picking up the pieces of myself, slowly returning to the things that once brought me joy. Life went on. It was good, even. Until two years later, when I went to urgent care for strep throat, and more than one test came back positive. I’d told myself that if this ever happened again, I would disappear. I would leave and raise my child on my own. I had the means, I told myself. Children need their parents, their emotional stability, more than anything else. Anything beyond that is a bonus.

They left the room to give me space, and I broke. The tears came violently, uncontrollably.

On the car ride home, everything changed. He said we could have a child—he would support me, despite everything he had said earlier. He made it clear: he didn’t want more kids, but he would do it for me.

And suddenly, I was angry. I don’t know if I regret saying it, but I told him I could never imagine a world in which we shared that bond anymore. The train had left the station, and I wasn’t interested in getting back on.

He booked a vasectomy, and I scheduled an abortion. He advised me to take 24 hours to think about it. I didn’t. Less than 24 hours later, I had the pills, and I lied about taking them. I felt trapped, confused, and utterly alone. I felt betrayed—not just by him, but by everything.

Every day, I carry the grief. It weighs on me, and I’m still discovering what lies beneath it. The emotions run deep, and the questions I’ve been left with are still unresolved.

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