I woke up just after 2 AM to my phone ringing. My alarm was set for 4:45 AM, allowing me just enough time to prepare for a trip to my brother's home. He and his wife were gearing up for a hospital visit where my sister-in-law was meant to be induced at 7 AM.

However, her water broke unexpectedly during the night, and I was needed to look after their 3-year-old, Felix, earlier than anticipated.

“Can I take a quick shower?” I mumbled, still in a daze.

“Ummm,” my brother Levi replied, “better just come straight here. You can shower at our place.”

I wasn’t sure why I asked that. With 11 (now 12) nieces and nephews, I should know that midnight calls about water breaking don’t allow for showers.

I've been the emergency babysitter for six births in the past decade. Why? Out of my five siblings, only two of us remain childless — my younger brother Jack and me. Despite Jack’s wonderful rapport with kids, I’ve become the go-to person in these scenarios.

At one point, I was enthusiastic about babysitting. I always envisioned myself as a mother and believed I would excel in that role.

When my younger sister started her family, I was thrilled. Her first child was born on my 30th birthday, which felt like a special gift. I cherished being there for all the family milestones, thinking of them as practice for my own future children.

I never anticipated falling deeply in love with a younger man who struggled with commitment. I spent nearly a decade of my prime childbearing years with him, only to lose him.

The sacrifices we make for love…

After my brother and his wife left for the hospital, I crawled into the guest room bed, hoping to catch some sleep before Felix woke up. My sister-in-law insisted he’d be up by 4 AM, but I reassured her that a kid wouldn’t wake that early.

After tossing around for less than an hour, listening to the cats darting around and trying to ignore the bathroom fans my brother left on to soften the noise for Felix, I heard him calling for his mother. I ventured into the master bedroom, thinking I could lull him back to sleep, but he was already standing. A child standing in bed isn’t likely to lie back down.

I explained the situation to him (he already knew his mother was having a baby) and shared my sister-in-law’s suggestion for him to play in the playroom while I grabbed a bit more rest.

He agreed and headed off to the playroom while I returned to bed.

Just about 45 seconds later, I felt a warm breath on my cheek and opened my eyes to see Felix’s face inches from mine. “Auntie,” he whispered. “When will you wake up?”

“Morning,” I mumbled. “I’ll get up when it’s morning.” I thought waiting for sunlight was a reasonable request that might buy me a few more moments of sleep.

Yet every few minutes, Felix reappeared, sometimes charging down the hallway like an elephant, other times sneaking up like a cat, startling me when I opened my eyes to find him so close.

“I wanted to check on you,” he whispered at one point.

Another time, he asked, “Can I have some of the kale chips you brought? I can’t open the container. Can you do it?”

Later, he said, “Can I play with your hair? I like playing with Mama’s hair.”

And then, “There’s nothing to do out there, Auntie. Can’t you wake up and do something?”

Finally, my favorite declaration: “Auntie, I’m ready for a diaper change. I just pooped. A lot.”

Each time I heard him approaching, I found myself thinking, Please, let him find something to distract him before he reaches me.

As expected, my wishes went unanswered. I’m convinced he visited me no less than 57 times in an hour. As dawn's light began to fill the room, he jumped on the bed and shouted, “It’s morning! You have to get up now! You said you would! I need my tofu scramble!”

And that’s how my day started.

If you were to ask me about my greatest heartache, I’d say it’s that I never had the daughter I always imagined. I almost did, but I lost her. Thankfully — mercifully — it wasn’t meant to be.

I always thought I’d get another chance. Life felt so long back then.

Now, it seems to have slipped through my fingers far too quickly.

I never expected to be single at 38, grappling with the reality that I might never have a child of my own. I’m not the quickest to jump into new relationships, and I figured I would be in my 40s before finding a new partner.

The scariest aspect of my breakup wasn’t where I would go when I could no longer afford the house alone, what I would do without my partner, or how to cope with the loss of our dog shortly after the breakup… The most frightening realization was that I might never have a baby from my own body — and perhaps never become a mother at all.

People suggested that if I wanted it, I needed to act quickly. “Find a man,” they said. Some encouraged me to consider adoption, while others proposed sperm donation or surrogacy.

Despite their good intentions, the common thread in their advice was: Hurry up! Time is running out!

While I understood their urgency, I couldn’t help but question whether they truly grasped the weight of their suggestions. Did these women with husbands and children comprehend the gravity of such decisions?

Did they realize how tough it could be to find a partner after 40? Or that pursuing a relationship solely for the sake of having a child might not be ideal? Did they know how prohibitively expensive adoption, insemination, and surrogacy could be?

Did they appreciate the fear of contemplating late-in-life motherhood? Or the even greater fear of single motherhood? (To all the single mothers out there, you are my heroes.)

These weren’t decisions I could rush into. Even amid the urgency, these choices demanded careful consideration and clarity. Alone and struggling to make ends meet on my nonprofit salary, I wasn’t eager to leap into the monumental decision of motherhood.

And truthfully, I was exhausted. I had spent years mentoring teenagers, teaching, and caring for my nieces and nephews since high school. Before that, I had been more of a mother to Jack, my younger brother, than a sister. I felt like I had been raising kids my entire life, and I was simply worn out.

My morning with Felix didn’t improve. I prepared breakfast, creating an unprecedented mess in the kitchen — with his enthusiastic assistance, of course. (I had hoped that leaving all the tofu and hash browns he dropped on the floor would entice the cats to clean up for me, but alas, that only seems to work with dogs.)

When I stepped out of the shower, I discovered he had flung open the bathroom door. As soon as I pushed the curtain aside, he burst into the room, exclaiming, “Auntie, where have you been? I’ve been bored this whole time!”

After finally managing to occupy him long enough to get dressed, I decided to take him to my sister’s house, which was filled with toys and had another 3-year-old for him to play with. Upon arrival, I swiftly swapped Felix for her 6-month-old baby, laid him down for his morning nap, and fell asleep beside him.

The rest of the day was spent at my sister’s, where Felix enjoyed playing with his cousins while I engaged with the easy-going baby.

When we received word that Felix’s little sister had arrived, instead of joy, he looked at me curiously and asked, “Auntie, why don’t you have any babies? What do you even use these for?” as he patted my chest.

This isn’t the first time children — or adults (though the latter usually omit my chest) — have asked similar questions. Sometimes, I find them amusing, while other times, they hit me hard. I never know how I’ll react until it happens.

Today, I laughed it off. I explained that everyone has a different number of children — sometimes none, sometimes two, sometimes eight, or even twelve… Everyone’s journey is unique.

The question didn’t sting today. Sometimes, I can clearly appreciate the benefits of not having children.

After taking him home and preparing dinner, the quietness of our house was jarring compared to the lively chaos of my sister's home. Felix was tired, and when he’s weary, he can be quite sassy.

I was frazzled, barely managing to cook his macaroni and cheese and slice an avocado. After a bite, he dramatically dropped his fork on the table, sighed in exasperation, and looked at me with annoyance.

“More lime. More salt,” he demanded.

One of the cats was meowing because I hadn’t refilled their food bowls yet. The pot of boiling noodles was bubbling over. My brother was texting me repeatedly, checking in since I hadn’t updated him in three hours.

“What?” I asked, breathlessly.

He pointed at his avocado as if I were a clueless waitress who had messed up his order. “Salt. Lime. I need salt and lime on this.”

“Oh no, I forgot,” I muttered, correcting myself as I turned off the burner. “I mean darn! Oh darn! ”

He scrutinized me suspiciously as I squeezed lime over his avocado and added salt. Then he declared, “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” and left to play in the other room.

There are days when I’m grateful for not being a mom. I adore children, and my love for my nieces and nephews knows no bounds. But… wow.

At this stage in my life, the thought of having a baby feels overwhelming. That doesn’t mean I’m content with the situation. It doesn’t ease the pain of not having a child. It doesn’t lessen the ache of the little girl I lost.

But… sometimes, I find strength in acknowledging that my life might be fulfilling without children. Perhaps it’s acceptable at this juncture to prefer not having a toddler watching me as I attempt to sleep in the mornings or critiquing my cooking skills in the evenings. It can be adorable, but I suspect I wouldn’t relish that routine every day.

Ten years ago? Absolutely. But now? Not really.

I don’t quite understand how I can simultaneously feel regret, sadness, and relief. Yet here I am. I’m heartbroken over not having children. I mourn the loss of the daughter I never got to meet.

But… I’m also happy. I treasure my freedom.

Just an hour ago, I told Felix a bedtime story about a family of deer wandering through the forest in search of tasty treats. He interrupted me, expressing how much he missed his mother, claiming he couldn’t sleep without her.

It was a touching moment. I can’t fathom another human needing me like that. I felt that familiar yearning for motherhood stab at my heart.

“I need some water,” he said, prompting me to kiss his forehead and head to the kitchen for his sippy cup.

I was dragging my feet. I had been awake (or at least semi-conscious) for 18 hours, had changed four dirty diapers belonging to three different children, and was more than ready to crash myself, though work still awaited me.

Upon returning with his water, I found him fast asleep. Even as I pondered what it would be like to have a child who needed me above all else, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief leaning against the wall.

He was asleep.

I loved him dearly, but… thank goodness.