I found a pile of papers on his desk one afternoon.
“What is all this?”
“Research.”
“Research into what?”
He looked at me with the expression of a boy caught stealing biscuits.
“Having another child.”
I sat down.
“Samuel, we have three children.”
“I know.”
“We have six grandchildren.”
“I know that too.”
“And I am sixty-five years old.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this conversation?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Because I don’t want to grow old feeling that the best part of my life is behind me.”
His answer made me sad.
I understood that he was not simply asking for a baby. He was frightened of losing his purpose. He missed being needed.
But I was tired.
I had spent decades raising children, managing a household, and putting everyone else’s needs before my own.
I loved my family, but I did not want to begin motherhood again.
