‘Ooh, i want him!’ I thought, when I first saw a photo of the smiling, blue-eyed man who would become my husband on the dating website Guardian Soulmates. On his profile, he’d selected ‘maybe’ to the question ‘Want children? ’– but so had I. At 39, I didn’t want men assuming I’d be bulldozing them into fast-track conception. While I hoped for children one day, having had my early thirties interrupted by breast cancer and then spent the rest of the decade single, what I wanted most was a relationship.
So when Mark and I first fell in love, I had no desire to relinquish our nights of sex and chatting until the early hours for broken ones feeding a baby. Or swap weekends ambling around London, taking in exhibitions, cake shops and tapas bars for the playground’s sandpit. Nor did Mark. He’d also spent his thirties unwell, from an autoimmune condition, which shrunk his life to just sleeping and working (with some struggle). At 40, finally better, he wanted to reclaim those lost years, not be at the beck and call of a child. We were happy. But, a couple of years into our relationship, motherhood tugged at me.
Back then, Mark worked in Germany and we spent alternate weekends together. Not wanting to spoil our precious 48 hours with an uncomfortable conversation, I procrastinated. Then, one morning, en route to a breast cancer check-up, I ran into an acquaintance, cuddling his six-week-old son. ‘He’s the best thing ever,’ he told me. If my scan was clear, I decided I’d finally speak to Mark.
The first conversation didn’t go well. ‘I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever want to do,’ he admitted. During a subsequent conversation, he was even more resolute. It was Valentine’s Day and, instead of eating the lasagne he’d laboured over, I lay on the bed, crying. Finally, several tense talks later, Mark reluctantly agreed to try. ‘Only because I love you so much,’ he said. I was grateful, but also fearful. What if he loathed being a parent?
It took us four years to conceive, during which we also married. After two failed rounds of IVF, I was desolate, and Mark supportive, but unperturbed. I became pregnant with our third cycle. It was summer and Mark was in the US, studying for a master’s degree, so my father accompanied me to my 12 and 20-week scans, and my mother helped me choose a pram and bassinet. As my due date loomed, the question I daren’t speak out loud lurked inside me: what would happen when our son arrived?
When he did, after a calm, planned C-section, Mark by my side, I was relieved. As Alexander, all 9lbs of him, lay on my chest, a fierce love rose up within me. But in the weeks after our son’s birth, Mark continued his thrice-weekly gym visits, and Saturdays studying for his master’s. I would take Alexander out for long walks so Mark could study in peace, wanting him, above all, to stick around.
Then, one Saturday in February, when Alexander was eight weeks old and Mark and I had barely slept and had heavy colds, we had a huge fight. ‘You made me do this!’ he yelled. I stormed out of our flat. Pushing the pram around a cold, stark Regent’s Park, seagulls wailing overhead, an ache lodged itself in my heart. Exhausted and fearful I was about to lose the man I loved, regret flooded in. Why had I done this? All for a life that involved constant, incomprehensible screaming that left me exhausted, unable to even savour a hot cup of tea.
But Mark didn’t leave. And when I eventually returned home, he apologised and offered to sleep with Alexander that night, so I could rest. Could our relationship survive this? As it turns out, it could.
The turning point came one sunny May weekend, at a party discussing parenthood with a gay couple unsure of whether to pursue it. ‘It’s the best thing ever,’ my husband said, much to my surprise.
Unbeknown to me, in the months I’d been terrified that our baby would tear us apart, Mark’s love had been quietly blooming: as he cradled Alexander’s tiny body while he guzzled from his bottle, or stood by the Moses basket at night, watching his chest rise and fall. One evening, I caught Mark scribbling in a notebook, writing down memories (‘Cuddled his Paddington Bear; sat up, with my help.’) I knew then, time was all he needed – to adjust to our new life and fall in love with being a parent the way I had.
‘I want Daddy, not you,’ Alexander would go on to say, once he had words. He’s now five. When he hurts himself in the playground, it’s still usually Mark he wants to comfort him. Each morning, he insists Mark reads with him. I retreat to our bedroom, grateful for a few minutes to do yoga. ‘Do you love him more than me?’ I asked Mark recently. ‘I probably do,’ he replied, ever direct. I struggle to measure love but, if Alexander’s usurped my place in Mark’s heart, it’s a tiny price to pay. Not least when I reflect on how differently our story could have unfolded.
Annabel Chown’s book, ‘Hidden: Young Single Cancer’ (Blue Door Press), is out now