When my ex and I separated, I chose to become a single mother through sperm donation, so I was sure I knew where my son came from. But when we moved back to my hometown, the way my old friends stared at him made my stomach drop.
My divorce papers weren’t even cold when I decided I wanted a baby. Not a husband, not a boyfriend.
Just a tiny human to call my own.
After my ex, Ethan, made it clear he’d never want kids and asked to separate, the path ahead seemed obvious. I’d still become a mother.
Even if I was on my own.
“You’re seriously going through with this?” my friend, Olivia, asked from her spot on my couch while watching me scroll through donor profiles. “Girl, you’re only 28.”
“And getting older by the minute.” I clicked through another profile. “Plus, the right donor could pop up any day.”
“The right donor,” she snorted.
“As if picking the father of your child is like online shopping.”
“Better than my dating history,” I sighed, and I closed my laptop, rubbing my tired eyes. “At least these guys are pre-screened for genetic diseases and criminal records. More than I can say for my ex.”
“Fair point,” Olivia nodded and handed me a soda can.
“But what about love? Don’t you want your kid to have a dad?”
“They’ll have me. That’s enough.”
I sipped my Coke while remembering Ethan’s face when I’d mentioned children.
The way he’d recoiled like I’d suggested we move to Mars.
“Besides, plenty of kids grow up happy with single parents.”
***
The sperm bank’s website became my nightly ritual. Six-foot-two, brown hair, medical degree. I treated this search like building my dream man, except this one would only contribute DNA.
No messy relationships, no disappointments, no Ethans. Just the gift of life, wrapped in a sterile specimen cup.
Jude, my best friend since forever, supported me through it all. He even helped me pack when I decided to move states for a fresh start.
“Connecticut?” He taped another box shut, his forehead wrinkled in concern.
“That’s practically Canada.”
“It’s where my mom grew up. She loved it there. It might be nice.
I’d have no family nearby, but I really need a new start.” I labeled the box “Kitchen – Fragile” in bold Sharpie strokes.
“Yeah, but…” he began while fiddling with the packing tape. “What if you need help? With the baby?”
“That’s what babysitters are for,” I said and bumped his shoulder with mine.
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