Listen to the author reading this piece:
I wasted my healthy reproductive years in unhealthy relationships, forgetting that my ovaries weren’t as young as people said I looked. I wasted so much time that people use the past tense in conversation with me now. ‘You would have been a great mother.’
When I visited my sister, Edel, in hospital after she gave birth to her first child, I saw women smoking cigarettes outside the front door, their dressing gowns strained across heavily pregnant bellies. Why them and not me? The jealousy is often visceral. The grief of my invisible loss was forever on my mind but never came out of my mouth. Just another thing buried in my internal graveyard. ‘I thought you’d be the first to give us a grandchild,’ said my father when one of my sister’s became pregnant at sixteen. ‘Donna will give us the girl,’ said my mother when their fourth grandchild was yet another boy. I joked that Edel might get there before me even though she was sixteen years my junior. The joke turned out to be a prophecy.
It felt like my baby was having a baby because I had been like a mother to Edel for twenty-nine years. A classic example of the eldest daughter being stricter than the actual parents. My mother was forty-five when Edel was born. One year younger than I am now. She often said, ‘You have to move with the times Donna,’ when I tried to stop her being so lenient with Edel. She was trying to be hip and cool like all the younger mothers. ‘Highlights in her already blonde hair, leg waxing and a spray tan. Are you mad? She’s twelve. It’s a confirmation not a bloody wedding.’ She didn’t listen to me then or when she allowed her to get a tattoo at sixteen. ‘She thinks she’s your mother,’ she’d say to Edel while rolling her eyes. She could roll them all she wanted, but the fact of the matter is that I’m the one Edel ran to for comfort when she witnessed her boyfriend collapse and die. ‘Are you sure you’re not my mother?’ she asked. I joked that I would have done a better job, but half meant it. Our parents did their best but we grew up in a home where love wasn’t easily expressed and we didn’t talk about our feelings. I yearned for the simple things; Good morning; Good night; Good luck in your exams; How was your day?
I denied how painful being childless was until Edel’s pregnancy announcement. A simple text message to the family group. I could understand that she wanted to get the news out of the way in one go, but couldn’t comprehend why was I being told at the same time and in the same way as everyone else. She should have known the news would hit me differently. I replied with one word as I allowed the overwhelming sense of sadness to consume me. ‘Congratulations.’ I had to dust myself off in time for the gender reveal party. I was her oldest sister, and the eldest daughter, and everyone was used to seeing me calm and in control. I put on my game face.
It was late afternoon and the sun was shining. Family and a few friends gathered around the pastel-coloured decorations. A large white balloon swayed in the gentle breeze, revealing the blue and pink words ‘He? or She?’ Laughter and chatter filled the air. I channelled my emotions into the tasks at hand, smiling as I handed out the pink and blue iced cupcakes. When the time came to pop the balloon, I stood alone at the side of the crowd. ‘Three, two, one.’ The balloon popped and a burst of pink confetti showered down like tiny cherry blossom petals. Cheers erupted. Edel’s boyfriend hugged her and tears of happiness flowed down her glowing cheeks.
I won’t be the first to give them a granddaughter.
I no longer have time to give them any grandchild.
I was next to hug Edel. I kept my voice as steady as I could as I congratulated her, but my eyes were going to betray me so I kept it brief.
Amidst the commotion, I slipped away to find a moment to myself upstairs. My vision blurred as tears threatened to spill so I took deep breaths, exhaled slowly, and kept my head tilted back, gazing at the ceiling. I heard footsteps on the stairs, blinked rapidly, and pretended to organise the gift bags before Edel came into the room. I handed her my gift. In addition to several neutral clothes and trinkets, I bought a blush pink rabbit with floppy ears and long dangly legs. I apologised for how I reacted to her pregnancy announcement and was attempting to explain myself when she took my hands and held them in hers before asking me to be the godmother. The wave of emotion I had been trying to hold back enveloped me. My hands left hers and rose to shield my face. My shoulders shook as uncontrollable sobs began. She hugged me and we stood in an embrace until I managed to nod my response.
I was in my forties and just out of a relationship that I had thought was going to last. When it ended, I knew that my chance was gone. My cut-off point had passed. I had to accept life on terms that weren’t my own and act like business as usual. I hear words like barren, spinster, and career woman. People constantly presume it’s a choice rather than circumstance. I watch movies and see childless women depicted as witches, evil stepmothers, or crazy cat ladies. I’ve become invisible to a HR department apparently focussed on diversity, equity, and inclusion. I hear the same things over and over.
‘Just adopt.’
‘If you really wanted children, you should’ve tried harder.’
‘You’re lucky.’
‘Want one of mine?’
‘Just have one on your own.’
It’s hard enough to hear these things from strangers or casual acquaintances, but when they come from your friends, they hit harder. I’ve heard sane friends say insane things. ‘Just trap someone.’ While these comments never help, imagine hearing them when you just broke up with your boyfriend and you know it was your last-chance-to-have-a-baby-relationship. Staring face to face with a future without my own children, I can’t help but blame myself. I think of the child I never had. The daughter for whom I would have been everything I needed when I was a little girl. I’m still grieving and learning to accept my new path.
Donna Leamy is a PhD scientist currently working in the biopharmaceutical sector. After winning a placement on The Walls of Limerick mentoring program, she took a career break to pursue an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick. She graduated with first class honours in January 2025. Her work has featured in a special edition of Silver Apples magazine, and poetry anthologies Washing Windows IV and V.
What an amazing and brave piece.
This really resonated with me: Our parents did their best but we grew up in a home where love wasn’t easily expressed and we didn’t talk about our feelings.
Wow, Donna. Thanks for sharing and writing about something like this with such vulnerability.