I finally succumbed to becoming a mother ten years into my relationship.
Having a child meant I would have a family.
And I didn’t want one.
I was too much into myself and my partner, wrestling with the arduous life task of cohabiting with another human being: my other, a man.
A male friend once told me: “You want to remain a girl. You don’t want to become a woman”. Motherhood is womanhood then.
Perhaps.
Another male friend said: “Your life will have meaning when you have a child.”
So, my life had been meaningless? Perhaps.

I wanted a baby girl, but I had a boy, so I tamed my initial desire and accepted yet another man into my life.
By the time I had him I was ready for him.
I will not let him enslave me.
I will not breastfeed him, for that is enslavement.
So, I lost my milk and became enslaved by bottles.
I went back to work forty eight hours after I delivered.
I dragged my feet back home and bled all night in bed.
But I told myself that my life had not changed.
I am a working woman, not a mother.

Today my son is thirteen.
When did I learn to love him so?
The first time I held him in my arms I did not feel this love.
I felt moved and softened, but I did not feel this love.
I learned to love him over the years, as I watched him become a human being: learning to talk and becoming stubborn, bright, artistic, and funny.

It’s Valentine’s Day and he’s in love, for the first time.
He asks for my help to buy her a present. “I want something that will last”, he says.
When did he learn all this and from where?
In my excitement, I buy half a dozen gifts for his loved one and I let him choose.
He comes home elated, cheek stamped with his first kiss.
And I think: will I be able to help him through the arduous life task of cohabiting with another human being someday?
Perhaps.