Twenty-five years ago, I made the decision to marry the man I love. I was 23 when I packed up my life in Montreal and moved to New York City for him. I had yet to actually meet this man, but as I drove down the I-87 to my new home, I was confident that I was headed exactly where I always expected to be: in love, married, and a mother. And on my first job interview in New York City, I even inquired about maternity benefits. After all, I was expecting twin girls.
To clarify, I wasn't pregnant. But since I was 10-years-old, I imagined that one day, I'd have twin girls - despite no familial history of twins.
But as the years in New York went by and I remained single, I eventually let go of that dream. I didn't care if I had three boys. I just wanted to be a mother.
Ultimately, I let go of that dream, too. I'm now 49, still single, and on the other side of hope for motherhood.
I've been in love. I believe in love. I've loved men who didn't love me back. I've loved men who weren't ready to love me-or anyone. I've met men whom I wanted to love, hoping so deeply to fall over the edge into love with them that it ached. But in the end, I found myself single and unwilling, unable, to settle.
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