by Emma Gannon
“It’s weird,” Isla continues. “I think every one of us has a Sliding Doors moment, whether we know it or not. This is mine. I might never be a mum. Well, in the biological sense, I mean. It just makes me really fucking sad to say that out loud.” Isla takes a bite of the baguette. She chews it with her mouth open, like she’s completely given up on the world. “I’m so lucky that my uncle keeps funding my treatments. It’s so pricey.”
I think about how much time Isla has spent in her bed feeling depressed or suffering from endometriosis flare-ups over the years, plus the horrific tragedy of losing her parents at such a young age. Luckily her uncle has stepped in and done a great job and continues to help her financially. Poor Isla, spending her life suffering in more ways than one, and now fertility issues are unfairly being added to her pile. Making an active choice about motherhood is one thing, but having that choice taken away is another. How do you do the whole “Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” when you don’t even have free rein to choose? Every time someone we vaguely know announces their pregnancy in some elaborate way on Instagram, we all hold our breath and hope that Isla doesn’t see it. She has good days, and then is triggered all over again by seeing something online and then won’t be able to leave her house for ages.
“I feel so lucky that my job is flexible right now. I don’t know how people do it if they are chained to a nine-to-five. How would you fit in all these fiddly doctor appointments?” Isla says, propped up by her elbows.
“You’re right, I still have to fill out a form and send it to my boss to have time off for a bloody smear test. And I work at a feminist magazine! I’d like to think people would be more understanding—especially when it comes to women’s issues.”
“I hope they will be. I’ve decided to basically close my practice and just take some of my top-paying clients from home—it’s been really nice, actually.”
Isla had opened her own therapy practice four years ago, and it was thriving. Word-of-mouth (and social media) recommendations counted for a lot these days, so when a famous millennial author had recently written a book with a chapter on therapists and had told her millions of Instagram followers about how great Isla was, literally overnight she was inundated with emails and texts from young, wealthy girls wanting the same magic fix. Isla had always been interested in the inner workings of other people’s minds, and she knew from an early age that she wanted to do something that involved talking about feelings. She called it “Headonism,” which was a shit pun the girls had all come up with at Jono’s years ago, but it stuck. It made sense: therapy had become much more normalized now, at least with women in their late twenties and thirties. “Off to see my therapist!” was the new “Off to get a haircut!” If anything, you were weird if you didn’t have one these days.
Isla pours herself more fake beer, dribbling some onto the grass, and gets herself in a different comfortable position on her front.
“So this woman came to see me the other day. Obviously I can’t use her real name or anything—let’s call her Marnie. She had paid the premium amount that comes with last-minute bookings; she sounded desperate, so I agreed to do it. I asked her to fill out a form online beforehand, which had some big questions on such as ‘What’s your relationship like with your parents?’ to ‘Have you ever been in a traumatic environment?’ She left most of it blank, so I had no idea what she was coming for.”
“Right,” I nod, chewing on a grape.
“This was a first session, so it was technically a chemistry meeting, getting to know each other and generally having a warm-up session, but she seemed very adamant that she wanted to dive on in. She had been struggling to come to terms with the fact that she had recently had an abortion, and the deep feelings of regret that followed shortly afterwards were haunting her. She’d had the termination at seven weeks, and immediately after the operation, she just wanted to make a U-turn. Marnie kept saying she wanted her baby back. She said she couldn’t leave the house. She couldn’t be around anyone. She cried at everything. She was worried that she was innately bad. That she might kill someone else.”
“Wow, poor woman.”
“I know. But I really struggled to find my empathy, Olive. ‘Poor her’ wasn’t my immediate reaction, and it really scared me. I tried to cover it up, but I felt my face get hot in the session. I was so angry. I would do anything to get pregnant. And there this woman was, opening up to me and paying me to give her zero judgment. I wanted to call her an idiot.”
Oh God, I thought, and here I am, wanting some sympathy over my breakup with Jacob; desperately wanting to talk to Isla about the obstacle that tore us apart. How can I ever get Isla’s empathy in the face of this?
“I feel awful, Ol.” She slumps her head into her hands. “I am a fully trained therapist—and a good person, I hope—and yet there I was, judging this other woman so severely for her choices. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly.”
I swallow my own queasiness. “But you weren’t to know. Yes, you’re a therapist, but you’re not superhuman.”
“And I obviously don’t have any issue with abortions. It’s just, all I can think about is my own body right now.” She awkwardly moves her glasses up her nose as she talks. “I’m a monster.”
“No, you are not.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be a therapist anymore,” Isla says.
“Isla. No. No amount of training can make you become immune to your own open wounds.”
“Hmm. You know, I can’t treat her now, but when Marnie left she shook my hand and thanked me for a brilliant session. Through my pain, I guess I still managed to help her in some way. She said she felt so much better. Then I closed the door, smiled, waved, went back indoors, and sat on the sofa. I stared at the wall, then I cried and cried and cried into a cushion until my face hurt,” she says, and starts to cry again.
“Oh, Isla.” I move and sit next to her, wrapping both my arms around her.
“I just want my own fucking baby so fucking much,” she says, this time with a snot bubble coming out of her nose.
We sit in silence, me holding her. She feels so small, her shoulders so petite. She has lost weight. She is closing in on herself.
So, this is what it must feel like to really want a child.
I close my eyes tightly and try to imagine it for a second. To imagine wanting it. To imagine that feeling in my own body and mind, of wanting to create a new life.
Still nothing.
The more I hide it, the heavier it becomes. Each woman I know carries it—shame—but it’s a different shape for us all. There is always a hidden shame related to motherhood; whether you want a baby, or you don’t, or whether you hate being a mother, or whether you love it more than anything else in your life. I know what it’s like to want something, to pine and long and cry for something. I have longed for boys who didn’t love me; I have longed for a new version of myself, longed for a dream job, longed for my cozy bed after a week of camping . . . but this lack of longing for a baby feels so lonely. And not having Jacob in my life anymore seems like some kind of punishment for my decision.
I desperately want to say all this to my friend in this moment as I sit there, hugging her, rocking her gently as she cries into me. But how can I, in the face of Isla’s pain?
“I think I should go and lie down now,” Isla says in a monotone and starts packing up her things.
She does this sometimes. When we were younger we’d be having a nice time at a party, and she would suddenly grab her bag and leave. A French exit? An Irish goodbye? I understand this time, though. We put the ends of the baguette and plastic cups in the bin and brush the dirty grass off our clothes.
“You are so loved, Isla,” I say gently. “No matter what happens, you have me, and you have Bea and Cec.”
“Thank you, Ol. You know, when we were younger, I just never imagined all of these problems. Adulth
ood looked like the dream.”
“I know, me neither,” I say, hugging her tightly.
“People have started to look at me with pity. Society really wants us to get married, have two children, and move to a house with a driveway still. I’m more likely to go and live abroad and travel more.”
Lily, 43
16
It’s late afternoon on a Friday, and I’m planning to spend the evening getting drunk on the bottle of chilled rosé sitting in front of me on my desk. It was a gift from Gill because Chrissy Teigen retweeted one of my articles last week, and the website practically broke because so many people were clicking the link. It was an amazing feeling, and it’s a pretty rare occurrence to have your article go viral. On that note, I need to finish Gill’s “Do Millennials Want Kids?” article—I’ve really started to enjoy the editorial tunnels I’ve been going down. It’s almost become a sport. It’s all I can think about, and I have so many notes, more than I know what to do with.
I want everyone to leave the office, so I play some podcasts loudly as a hint. Everyone is slacking off, slumping in their chairs, writing personal emails, eating loudly at their desks, ready for the weekend. Someone is playing a Phil Collins song, and Colin is starting to pour Buck’s Fizz into plastic glasses because the company has just met its quarterly financial target.
“Beverage, m’lady,” Colin says, planting one down next to my mousepad.
“Thank you.”
“Excited for the weekend? I am gonna get leathered,” he says, knocking back the liquid.
“Meh,” I say. “To be honest, Col, I’ve got sod all planned.” Colin is literally the only person at work who knows the real me. He squeezes my shoulder and then disappears to the other side of the office, distracted by a colleague who has brought their new dog in.
I feel like it’s a taboo thing to say that I never really find the weekend that exciting. I prefer the working week more than the pressure of having a perfect two days outside of it. I put my headphones in and hover my fingers over my keyboard, as if I’m about to play a grand piano.
My phone beeps, interrupting my flow. It’s Cec sending me a pic of Oscar with the caption: “We just had a poo-nami.” I shudder.
It’s the first peep I’ve heard from Cec in weeks, but I need to get into my stride with this article. Focus, Olive. I google: “Why am I not feeling broody?” No harm in mixing my personal interests with the professional. I look over my shoulder to check no one is watching me.
Over two million results suddenly pop up on the screen.
An article comes up from an online magazine listing “9 signs you’re feeling broody!!!!” The website doesn’t look very legit, but I’m intrigued all the same.
You romanticize the idea of morning sickness (hell no)
You feel your ovaries twitch whenever you see anything really cute (no)
You are jealous whenever someone posts a pregnancy bump on Instagram (nope)
You’ve often stood sideways in the mirror and imagined a bump (lol no)
You’ve often put a pillow up your T-shirt to imagine a bump (wtf no)
You randomly find yourself going into Mothercare and look at/touch baby clothes even though you’re not pregnant yet (no, what’s wrong with people please?)
You love holding your friends’ babies (it’s OK, but no, not really)
You write down baby names in your notepad (no)
You absolutely love the show One Born Every Minute (hmm, no.)
I look around at the party atmosphere in the office. Colin is doing a samba routine with Julie, the head of design at .dot. Julie has her hands on Colin’s shoulders, and Colin has one leg back, like he is doing a lunge. “I Like It” by Cardi B is blasting out of the radio.
“What are you two doing?” I shout across the office. “Some people are still trying to finish their work for the day!”
“Julie’s got a date tonight,” Colin says, midstep and a bit breathless, “so I’m teaching her some new moves.” She steps on his foot, and they burst out laughing.
Next to these two jokers, a meeting is trying to happen on beanbags on the floor, and someone else is shouting over the music about cover lines.
“Can everyone be a little quieter? It’s like a zoo in here,” I say.
“Agreed,” says Jason, one of the lead editors who looks stressed out.
Yes, everyone is a bit annoying and I have to tell them to shut up, but deep down I do still find the madness really comforting. It’s my second home here at .dot.
Ping. My internal thought-bubble bursts as I see an email flash up on my desktop from Gill. I’ve set them to “high priority,” and they make a horrible noise that actually makes me jump.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: YOUR ASSIGNMENT
All right Ol.
Re that millennial article you’re writing . . . here’s something that might be interesting to investigate and add into it.
Have you heard of The Moth? It’s a nonprofit storytelling night based in New York. Well, there’s a Moth-inspired (not actually The Moth) evening—ANYWAY it’s an open-mic night happening on Tuesday night in Shoreditch for “childless women.” I think it could be useful for your article. It’s called the CFBC “Child-Free By Choice club.” Interesting, eh???
I’m quite tempted to go myself to be honest but I’ll be in Ibiza . . . shagging a hot DJ hopefully ;)
I reckon you should go along, take notes and write something juicy up. Don’t let anyone know you are a journalist though obvs. Undercover style, please!
Toodles,
Gill
.dot magazine, editor in chief
I take a sip from my topped-up wineglass and start typing my response, fizzing with excitement. I can feel this whole topic getting deeper under my skin.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: YOUR ASSIGNMENT
Yesssss - fab idea! Enjoy your hol.
O x
Ping. Gill replies.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: YOUR ASSIGNMENT
Great. Make sure you get some juicy testimonials from these childless women pls ;)
Best wishes,
Gill
.dot magazine, editor in chief
I feel Colin lurking behind me, waiting to interrupt. I can smell his pungent cheap aftershave. Love him, but not his choice in male grooming products.
“Yes, Col?” I say, still typing.
“Do you fancy going for food in a bit, babe? You’ve been looking a bit stressed out lately,” Colin says, sitting on the side of my desk.
“Ah, maybe—where are you going?” My eyes are glazed over.
“A few of us are just gonna go to that Thai place on the corner. It’s a bit dingy, but the food is really good.”
“I might join you later. Still got a load of stuff to get through,” I say, still not really taking my eyes off my screen.
“You’ve literally only got Google open,” Colin laughs.
“Yeah, well,” I say defensively, turning on my chair. “I’ve got to google some stuff. For an article.”
“Okay.” Colin takes my reading glasses that are on my desk and starts cleaning them with a cloth from his pocket. “These are filthy.”
“What would I do without you, eh?” I laugh.
“I’m gonna send you an angry shouty email in ALL CAPS if you don’t come join us in the next hour. Okay?”
“Fine, okay.”
“You work too much,” Colin shouts as he walks off, putting his leather jacket on.
We both know that I won’t go. Too much to do. Too many rabbit holes to dive into. My mind flickers f
or a second: Have I become slightly obsessed?
People start to trickle out of the office, and, finally, I’m the only person left. I start to do some undercover googling, ready for my night out at the CFBC night “Moth style.” I crack my knuckles. I am excited by this. A chance to meet new, interesting people both online and at the club.
I’m surprised the first thing that comes up when I google “Support for child-free women” is the CFBC—I’ve never come across this before. I click on the CFBC website, and it’s just a landing page. To see the rest of the website, I have to “request access” by signing up as a member. All I can see at this point is that the group was founded by a woman called Iris who had set up a private Facebook group called “Child-Free Women by Choice,” but again I have to request access first. On the website the only thing I can read is the “about me” and the “contact” section, with Iris’s email address. The “about me” section is dedicated to explaining why everyone must respect child-free as the correct phrasing and wording. I look around, just checking again that no one is lingering and looking over at my monitor. I’m not embarrassed to be searching for this stuff, but something’s telling me to keep it close to my chest. It feels oddly private.
About The CFBC club
First things first, we are a club exclusively for women who choose not to have children. Please do not get this confused with women who are struggling with fertility or can’t have children. Those women are of course welcome here (we welcome you!!). But the focus of this group is for women who fundamentally do not want to live a life with children, so they can share, discuss, find like-minded friends, and most importantly, not be judged. When getting in touch with us, please make sure you check your terminology. Child-less is suggesting that something has been taken away. No. Child-free is who we are. We are all free to make our own choices in the world. We look forward to hearing from you.
I click open on the “contact” section of the website and notice that Iris lives near Islington in London, not that far from me. Iris is nearly fifty and passionate about women feeling that their lives can be extremely whole, without kids, at any age. Her bio really highlights how much she absolutely loves her colorful, rich, sexy, adventurous life. Fair play, Iris.