10-Year Journey to Parenthood Ends as Partner Leaves, Says 45-Year-Old Alexandra

I met Ronan in Caen, where we both grew up, in my twenties. I was attractive, he was handsome, and we were the ideal couple. During our college years, we moved to Paris and lived a wild life filled with dining out, nightclubs, work, and very little sleep! Luckily, I work in sunglasses sales, which is handy for hiding dark circles during the day! Back then, I never thought about having kids. I have an autoimmune disease affecting my colon that requires heavy medication during flare-ups, which isn’t safe during pregnancy. At that time, my focus was on having fun and healing.

But when I turned 30, things changed. People around us started having babies, and even my younger sisters had already had their first. We talked it over, I had numerous discussions with my doctors, and we decided to try for a baby despite the risk of having a flare-up during pregnancy, which would leave me untreated. It wasn’t life-threatening, but I would have to endure days of suffering without relief. I was willing to take that risk. The desire to have a baby was intensified by all these hurdles. I was determined to make it happen, no matter what.

The next ten years were filled with agony and sorrow. Not because of my disease, which fortunately didn’t flare up, but because of repeated miscarriages. It was true torment. Getting pregnant wasn’t the issue—I got pregnant six times—but for unexplained reasons, it always ended badly. I couldn’t understand why, and over the years, I convinced myself that my womb was tainted. Poisoned. Simply incapable of sustaining life. Meanwhile, my relationship was also crumbling. All my partner and I could talk about was whether to try again or not.

Ronan always supported me, but I could tell he was deeply sad too. The joy we had at the beginning was completely gone. I even thought he might leave, feeling him drawn to something, or someone else. But he assured me he wasn’t. Just when I imagined myself alone after 40, I got pregnant for the seventh time. Somehow, I knew right away that this time was different. Indeed, nine months later, at almost 42, our daughter was born. I spent almost the entire pregnancy on bed rest, forbidden from moving, but it resulted in the most beautiful gift one could receive.

“He left me a letter saying…”

In the first few weeks, Ronan was very affectionate; then, he became distant again. He mentioned having problems at work, but I sensed it was more profound. After six months, he left. He simply left me a letter, explaining that he didn’t know what was wrong, that he needed to figure things out. The truth was, he felt obligated to have this baby out of “loyalty.” He knew it was what I wanted more than anything. He didn’t want to leave without fulfilling this “mission.” Once our daughter was born, he felt free from any obligation.

And honestly, after months of feeling bitter and cursing him, I’m starting to realize he might have been right to leave. He hadn’t loved me for a long time, possibly partly due to my unglamorous illness. I’m not sure, but living with me just for the sake of our daughter would have been torture for both of us. For him, who felt suffocated here, and for me, who lived only for him. I haven’t finished mourning our relationship. I still hope, after all these years, that he might come back. I cling to hope as I have my entire life, and it has served me well.