Things You Only Know If You Raised A Child By Yourself

The first photograph of me and my son Tom is terrible. It’s pale and grainy and I look petrified. Tom’s face is only just in frame because I took the photo myself, long before selfies existed. Single, young and suffering from antenatal depression, I dreaded birth (and motherhood) and banned Mum, my birth partner, from photographing me in hospital. The morning after my Caesarean, though, I realised my son was beautiful and fascinating, and it was important to capture us on camera. Most first photos are taken by proud partners; this photo of bewildered and broken me, a baby in the crook of my arm, was an apt way to document the beginning of our atypical family.

I discovered during pregnancythat everything around the experience of reproduction was geared towards heterosexual couples. I avoided antenatal classes, certain I’d be the only single attendee, reading books instead. But the books were no better, illustrated with dads massaging labouring partners’ backs.

After Tom was born, I tried mother-and- baby groups, and it was like stepping into another world. The other mums were at least 10 years older than me, with husbands, cars, houses – they prefixed with ‘we’. I was living with my mum, very much an ‘I’. At one group, someone asked if Tom was an immaculate conception. Everyone laughed.

Tom was fathered by a friend I slept with, who’d promised he was infertile. He kept his second promise: to never have anything to do with the child. I’d hoped he’d change his mind, but it soon became apparent that Tom was going to grow up without a dad. Sometimes I’d look at him, kicking his chubby legs and beaming, and apologise through tears. I was convinced a father was essential to his happiness.

Yet I grew to love motherhood more than I could have imagined. As Tom began speaking, he became great company. I slowly became more confident and moved back to Manchester, the city I’d begrudgingly left behind when pregnant.

Apart from being constantly broke, many practical aspects of running a home alone are tough. The instructions on Tom’s flat-pack furniture featured two cartoon people. I told myself I couldn’t go to bed until I’d done it. Light flooded the front room and my son called, ‘Good morning!’ as I tightened the last bolt.

Then there’s the unbearable tear of needing to be in two places at once. Like when he was sick at nursery and needed collecting, while I was at a conference hundreds of miles away. I felt helpless. When Tom started school, I got a shock: suddenly I was supposed to be around more – listening to him read, making tea, washing up, bathing him, checking for nits. I often wondered what it would be like to have an extra pair of hands – and how single parents of more than one do it.

Children grow up painfully swiftly – Tom’s 14 now and I’m still lucky if I get a photo of the two of us; selfies are a definite ‘no’. I miss bedtime stories, but I love the funny, confident and polite young man he’s becoming. There’s much to be read about how fatherless children fail at school and in life, but Tom is thriving. Having no dad can be better than an unreliable one, or witnessing parental conflict. I’ve made all the important decisions; now I think I’d struggle to share parenthood with another person.

Recently, I saw Tom sing and play guitar at his first gig. As he performed fearlessly, it was hard to believe he was the baby I brought up on my own. When you raise a child alone, the guilt, stress and worries are all yours – but so is the overwhelming pride.

Emily has contributed to ‘The Best, Most Awful Job: Twenty Writers Talk Honestly About Motherhood****’, edited by Katherine May, out Thursday (£12.99; Elliott & Thompson)

Things You Only Know If...