Willingness. Did I have the willingness to be alone in the end? At the very end.

 The lawyer asked, “Do you have any heirs?” “Heirs. I thought only the royals had those.” A half-attempted eye roll was her response. “Kids, sons, daughters.” “No,” I said. “No heirs.” “How about siblings?” “Nope.” I could see the exhalation of her breath as the words formed in her mouth and she asked, “Are you married or in a legal partnership?” “Yes, I have been married for thirty-five years, but we lived together for four years before that, and then dated for two before the official living together thing-much to my mother’s dismay.” Now, there was a blank stare. I almost felt bad for her confusion and my inability to fit into any of her boxes. I had never been a nicely wrapped box with a crafty bow on top. I was the box from three Christmas’s ago. Bent, with pieces of old tape and wrinkled tissue paper inside of it. 

I thought back to all the times I had to explain to people why I did not have children. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but these new procedures they have these days might be something to look into” “Well, why don’t you have them, don’t you want them?” “You’re selfish.” And the one response that always left me feeling as if my uterus had just fallen on the ground beneath me, “But you won’t be a real woman until you have them.”

I live in a condominium community in Connecticut. I live in a cul de sac. I do not contribute to the sac. People notice and I can see all those letters that formed the old questions reappear in their pre-frontal cortex. Mostly everyone has children and some even get an extra bonus and have grandchildren. 

My husband and I have two cats. We love them, and they love us. We spoil them and enjoy every moment of it. We choose not to have children and not for any of the reasons mentioned earlier. 

We are both only children that grew up in tough circumstances. We did not get a lot of unconditional love, guidance, or toys. We were ornaments. I knew from an early age that I was like an extra limb for my mother. I wasn’t a whole person. Choices were few. 

At thirty-seven my body called out to me, “You must do it now if you’re going to do it at all.” There was discussion, strategy, and then eventually submission. There were no parents, in-laws, siblings, or other blood to help raise the cul from the sac. We both worked full-time and lived frugally. No resources for nannies or baby camp. There was no time for that.

And then malicious time went by. Judgement came with his friends- gossip and lies.

A new mandate had been put out. Menopausal women were mostly useless unless they could get a gig as a grandma. If not, send them to a glue factory, don’t look at them, or give them such bad healthcare that they will die. 

“I want to leave my modest assets to my husband should he outlive me. And if he dies first, I want to arrange things in a way that I am placed somewhere where someone will care.” The lawyer said, “You mean a nursing home?” “Yes.” She looked at me without compassion and said, “That’s why it’s good to have children.” I thought about how I had taken care of both of my parents and rode out hospice care with them, even though everyone told me I shouldn’t have done it. It was hard and created such anxiety, but I wanted to do it. I was their daughter. 

“Well, I really must be honest here. Your assets will run out quickly and then you will be put on Medicaid. You will have to live in a Medicaid home, and as you know the care is not always good. “Why is that?” Why is the care not always good?” She did a full eye roll this time and said, “Don’t be naïve, if you don’t have the resources in this country, you don’t get the best of anything, and on top of that you have no legacy to provide for you.” 

I thought of my trips to Italy and Scotland and how the elderly were revered and respected. That wasn’t going to happen here. I had made my choice, which was no choice at all.

I would have to accept the punishment for the crimes I had committed. I did not procreate for my country, I had never been an heir to anything, the work I did was not profitable enough, and I had let down all the cul de sacs I had ever met.

My life became erasable.

Part of We Could Almost Touch It, a special feature exploring women’s rights and perspectives since the 2016 election.

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