For over 30 years, that quiet heartbreak of being labelled “childless” shadowed my every step. I tied the knot with my first love at 23, our hearts bursting with big dreams and endless possibilities. But as seasons turned into years, no little one arrived. We dashed to clinics, endured pokes from needles, and shelled out fortunes on top docs, yet my arms stayed achingly empty. The real sting? Not the treatments or the costs, but the sideways glances. Neighbours murmuring about curses, my in-laws nudging my husband toward “a proper wife”.
It chipped away at my soul. Then, at 38, he was gone in a blink, taken too soon. That final thread of motherhood slipped away with him. I wandered through days like a ghost, drowning in deadlines, dodging joyful baby announcements, and faking indifference. Mother’s Day? It clawed at old scars. I’d bury my face in the pillow at midnight, whispering pleas to the stars for just one miracle, no matter how delayed. By my late 40s, surrender felt like my only companion.
That’s when Joseph entered my world, a gentle widower with his own quiet sorrows. We wed in a simple ceremony, both accepting a child-free path ahead. Still, the longing lingered like an old friend. One afternoon, a buddy who’d navigated her own storms leaned in and shared, “I’ve got a lead. Check out Dr Bokko. It’s not always the obvious stuff; sometimes there’s an invisible wall holding things back.” I baulked, cheeks burning. Continue Reading.