I AM a dead limb on my family tree. No new life will spring forth beneath my name. In generations to come, the limb upon which I perch will be forgotten, and removed, having borne no fruit-no offspring, no siblings, no cousins.

I am a childless woman. My childlessness is involuntary-it has not been by choice.

I will not bore the reader with infertility statistics. Those are readily available. I will entreat upon the reader to empathise with the grief that I, and others like me, bear, which is sometimes only a dull ache, but at other times a gutwrenching, soul-crushing despair.

Beginning in my late twenties, I came to dread the approach of Mother’s Day. Up to that point, Mother’s Day was meant for my mom, my aunts, my teachers. It had nothing to do with me. Then my child-bearing age became evident, and strangers started to ask if I had any children. As one who had been trying unsuccessfully to have a baby, the question stung, but I plastered what I hoped was a polite smile on my face, and replied in the negative. Responses to this have varied.

‘What yuh waitin’ for?’ ‘Children are a blessing, don’t wait too long or you’ll regret it.’

‘Wh’am, yuh only thinkin’ ’bout yuhself, yuh being selfish!’

I always marvelled at the ease with which people felt free to proffer their opinions, without knowing the full side of my story. And even if my childlessness were a choice, that still would not warrant the seemingly wellmeaning, but callous responses that people feel are their right to bestow.

Since my late thirties, and into my early forties, people have stopped asking me if I have children. I am now blithely wished ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’ by all and sundry, they thinking that they are being thoughtful by extending this greeting.

Again, I have practised smiling politely and murmuring thank you, because it is easier than the alternative of explaining that I am, in fact, not a mother, and at this point in my life, unlikely to ever be.

Others, who are aware of my childlessness, have attempted to ask me if I ever considered adopting? This, too, is a galling question. It almost makes me want to hotly retort, ‘No, I haven’t, have you?!’

Most people have children without thinking about it, without planning it, without consciously wanting it.

I have thought about it. Planned for it. Yearned for it. My body has failed to cooperate. And while the heartache this has caused is not as bad as it used to be, there are still moments when a stab of pain reminds me that I will leave no living legacy behind.

No child to whom to pour boundless oceans of maternal love. No small fingers to twine in wonder around mine. No soft butterfly kisses to be exchanged at bedtime. No bittersweet growing pains during their difficult teenage years. No swelling pride as they walk a stage at their graduation ceremony. No celebrating their first job. No toasts at their wedding, and birth of their own children. No grandchildren to give me joy in my old age…

As Mother’s Day has rolled around again, I felt compelled to pen these haphazard emotions, these disjointed thoughts. I have come to accept that society may never be fully reformed to appreciate my circumstance, and those other unfortunates who personally share in this childless state.

Strangers will continue with their well-meaning questions, and opinions, and greetings, without pausing to contemplate the distress that these wellintentioned overtures can cause.

For those who may be a bit more discerning to reflect, I beseech you. Be kind to the childless woman. She carries the grief of a profound loss, and one that is difficult to explain-and harder yet, to share.

Marisa Ramcharan

Arima