Update: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/zye9v8/i_didnt_want_to_be_a_mom_too_late_i_guess_pt_2/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

I knew from a young age that I didn’t want kids. I took precautionary measures and made sure that my partners did as well. I didn’t want the responsibility, the weight of being a mother on my shoulders. I watched my own mom struggle for years as our dad came and went. I watched her under eyes darken as she chose what was for dinner every night. I watched her smile fade everytime I didn’t eat what she made. I watched her back hunch as she sorted bills at the kitchen table. I watched her spirit crumble when she found she was pregnant for a second time. I watched her humanity leave her as she gave birth, a robotic mom taking her place. I watched my father leave her again and again. Eventually her friends left too, they all had better things to do without the burden of two young children.

She never resented me or my brother for being born like many parents in her situation do to their own children. She made sure we were fed, washed, and well cared for. She told us she loved us, read us children’s books, and worked as many hours as possible. I looked at her, this broken woman who had become a mom, and I resented her for it. I hated that she’d grown fat because she ate too much fast food and never took time to work on her own figure. I hated that she gave herself up for us, and often wished that my brother and I had never been born. I wondered often who my mom would be if she wasn’t stuck with two lead-weights on her hips.

So, when my body craved sex and I found a boy to do it with, I got on birth control and made sure that he wore a condom. I would never risk it. Of course, the only 100% effective birth control is abstinence, as they preach in health class, but it’s an unrealistic expectation. I lost my virginity at 17, later than many of my peers, and I was protected as could be. He and I split shortly after.

In college, I found myself repulsed by the lifestyle many of my peers lived. I didn’t want to fuck everyone and anyone, and certainly not without the above mentioned precautionary measures. I watched my roommates and friends suffer from STDs, have to get abortions, and some drop out of school to raise their new family. Never me. Never even a thought for me. After the summer of Freshman year, I met a boy and we dated. We were monogamous, and safe. He had much the same view of children as I did, and was happy to oblige to a childless lifestyle even after we graduated and married.

He and I were very much in love. We traveled, worked on the road, came back for holidays to see our family, and loved every minute of it. As we settled into our thirties, he had a change of heart.

“Ari, I’ve been thinking,” he began one morning as we sipped coffee in a hotel room.

“Oh dear Arnold, have you? Is that what I smell?” I answered.

He rolled his eyes at me before taking my hand. I looked into his eyes and he said, “I think it’s time to settle down.”

Taken aback, I replied, “What like, buy a house? Fine, but we’re keeping the camper.”

He nodded, “Yes, buy a house, settle into a nice neighborhood, and–”

“Arnold. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. I don’t want a divorce,” I said.

“What! It’s time darling, we have the savings, we have the skills, we have everything a child could want!” he pleaded.

“I told you when we met that I would never want nor have children. You agreed. That hasn’t changed.”

He huffed, “It was for me.”

I finished my coffee and pulled my hand away from him, “Then you should find someone to have a child with. It won’t be me.”

The conversation ended there. Arnold loved me, and I him. Neither of us wanted a divorce, but after ten years together, he knew that my stubbornness was not something to toy with. I was not one for compromise, even though I was easy going.

Arnold continued to bring it up on occasion, especially as we purchased a home with three extra bedrooms in the suburbs of my old town, but I shot it down each time. We became less and less intimate. Arnold found an in-office job and was home less. The day after my 34th birthday, he handed me divorce papers. He’d gotten a girl from his work pregnant, and was going to start a family with her. As sad as I was, I understood. I would never provide him with that lifestyle.

My 35th birthday, I went out to a bar with a neighbor. I’d opted to move out so Arnold and his new family could have a “family home” and rented a townhome a few cities over. The neighbor, Elyse, had recently gone through a divorce herself. She was a career-driven doctor and didn’t care much for family life either. We bonded, became close, and went out frequently.

It was at this bar that I met a man who ruined my entire life. As Elyse and I entered the bar, we took the only two available bar seats. He sat next to her. He was below-average height, we sat eye-level and I imagined that when he stood, it would be the same. He wore a Carhartt jacket, some remnants of mud from a hard-day's-work on the shoulder and sleeves. He stared at me as Elyse and I talked, a slight grin on his face. Each time I glanced at him, our eyes would meet, and he would continue to look at me as I turned away.

He was handsome, ruggedly so. His face bore a beard to envy, his eyes were dark and slightly hooded. Though his stature was less than impressive, I found myself captivated by him. I’ve always been attractive, but I’ve also aged gracefully out of my twenties and early thirties. This man couldn’t have been older than 25.

“I’m going to the bathroom, why don’t you steal my seat?” Elyse said quietly after an hour of sitting.

I attempted to protest, but she stood and left. I made every effort not to look at the man in the seat beside her empty one, but I felt him looking at me. Finally, after I polished off my third drink, I heard him speak.

“Would you like another? On me.”

I looked at him then as he turned his attention to the bartender and asked for another vodka soda for him and another moscow mule for me.

“That’s alright, I can grab my own tab,” I told him.

“Nonsense, I already put it in the order,” he said with a wave of his hand.

“Aren’t vodka sodas for soccer moms trying to lose belly fat?” I asked, teasing.

I was already tipsy, and hadn’t been laid in some time.

“Suppose so. I was starting to get a beer gut, had to start watching my empty calories,” he reasoned.

We sat talking, about nothing and everything. Elyse had found herself a hunk on the dancefloor, and barely looked my way as I spoke with the man. I found out his name was Bryson, he had no children, he lived alone in town, he liked to fish, and he’d just broken off an engagement after he found she was sleeping with her coworker. We exchanged pleasantries, a few touches, and by midnight, I was telling Elyse that I could text her in the morning as he wrapped his arm around my waist to lead me to his car.

He drove me to his house, a modest two-bedroom rambler in a decent part of town. I pulled a condom out of my purse, he put it on, and the night progressed. I called an Uber in the morning before we woke up and took two birth control pills, just to be safe. I didn’t get his number or his last name.

Four weeks later I was sick. The morning sick. The sick you don’t want to be if you don’t want kids. I took a test, and another, and another. Four positives later and I was on the phone with Planned Parenthood, scheduling a consultation. After the consultation, I was given a pill. The pill didn’t work. I went back four weeks later, symptoms still abundant, and they scheduled a surgical procedure. I had the procedure. They assured me that the deed was done, and asked me to be more careful in the future.

But, the symptoms persisted. I chalked it up to being pregnancy hormones for a child that had been vacated. After two months, I took a test. Positive. Of course it was fucking positive. I went back to Planned Parenthood, where they confirmed via ultrasound that there was in fact, life in my stomach. They scheduled another procedure. I had the procedure. Much to my relief, the symptoms of pregnancy stopped, though I did bleed profusely for weeks. Finally, six months after the ordeal, I was pretty much back to normal. I had gone through quite the depressive episode in this time, barely leaving my home and eating nothing but junk, and I’d put on a bit of weight. I thought nothing of it.

Then it kicked. I felt it. It was like the worst cramp I’d ever had, right in the center of my stomach. My belly button felt hot and swollen. I thought my appendix had burst, and rushed myself to the hospital. There, they confirmed, I was still pregnant.

It was too late for a fourth abortion. I would have to give the child up once it was born. In the meantime, they instructed me to take prenatals, schedule appointments with the proper facilities, etcetera. I did none of this, and at eight months and two weeks, I gave birth (against my will) to a healthy baby boy. The birth was disgusting, and I was disgusting for weeks afterward. I’d left the baby at the hospital and signed away parental rights immediately, but wished the best for the kid.

Four weeks after the birth, I got a call.

“Ma’am, the child is not doing well. We placed it in a foster-to-adopt home, but he’s gotten extremely sick. This is a rare occurrence, but it does happen. He needs a bone marrow transplant immediately. You’re a match.”

As much as I didn’t want to be a mother, I didn’t want the child to die. So, I agreed. I saved the child, never even having to see him. I expected that would be it. It wasn’t. Bryson showed up on my doorstep, baby carrier at his side.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked as he stood there.

“He’s ours. I claimed him. I want you to be a part of it.”

I laughed in his face, “How the fuck did you even find my house? You think I want to raise a kid with some stalker?”

His dark eyes looked sinister. “He told me,” Bryson said, raising the baby carrier with the sleeping infant.

I rolled my eyes, “Get out of here creep. I’ll call the cops,” I said, shutting the door in his face.

Bryson’s boot kept the door from closing. “He’s special,” Bryson pleaded. “He can talk.”

I opened the door slightly and slammed it again on Bryson’s boot, the steel toe did not give way.

“Please! Arianna! He needs you!” Bryson pleaded.

I opened the door slightly, in the crack I could see the sleeping boy curled in blankets. “Bryson, get away from my door or I’ll have you arrested.”

Bryson set the carrier on the front porch step. I watched the baby boy's eyes open. They were dark, like his father’s.

“I can’t. I can’t leave until you talk to him,” Bryson protested.

These remarks, these crazy remarks, reminded me of a serial killer from a true crime podcast I’d listened to earlier in the year. Bryson was delusional, in need of help. He’d gone to great lengths to find my house, my name, and the baby. Though short, I knew that Bryson could easily overpower me, especially if I couldn’t get the door closed.

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to him. But you have to step back,” I said.

“Arianna, don't close the door. I’ve had him for three days and all he talks about is you. He needs you. Please. Please I will do anything,” Bryson pleaded.

I hesitated, finally saying, “Okay Bryson. I will talk to him. But you have to step back.”

After a moment, the boot was removed from my doorstep. I slammed the door and locked it, running upstairs to my phone so I could call the police. Much to my dismay, I couldn’t find my phone. Bryson pounded on the door and I heard the baby crying. I continued searching for my phone when I heard glass shatter in the living room. Instinctively, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a paring knife from the block, figuring it would be the easiest to stab with. As I entered my living room, Bryson was pulling the carrier through the broken window. I pointed the knife at him,

“Stay back. I’m warning you,” I shouted.

“ARIANNA! PLEASE TAKE HIM. PLEASE TAKE HIM FROM ME!” Bryson screamed, an anguish I’ve never heard before ripping through his vocal cords.

Bryson dropped the carrier on the floor, the child screamed louder. Bryson dove through the window and ran away, leaving his car running in front of my house. Shaken and shaking, I dropped the knife to the floor. I slumped next to it, tears streaming down my face. Next thing I knew, Elyse was standing over me, her phone in hand as she spoke to the police.

She looked to the baby in the carrier feet away from me and picked him up, cradling and attempting to console the screaming child. I don’t know what possessed me at that moment. With sirens in the distance, I stood and extended my arms. Elyse wordlessly handed me the child wrapped in blankets. I looked at his screaming face, his dark eyes, the tears running down his cheeks. I went to wipe one away.

As my finger touched his cheek, my vision darkened. I felt my body tense and stiffen, an immaculate pain running through every nerve in my being. The sensation weakened, I tried to move but couldn’t, as if paralyzed in an out-of-body death. That’s when I heard him. It. The child. It was in my head, as if someone hacked my internal monologue of excruciating pain.

Mommy. Why don’t you love me?