With the advance of 40, with time ticking over, settling the issue of becoming a parent (or not) gained importance.
What did we want? How far were we prepared to go? We were keen for parenthood and adopting was something my husband and I had separately considered. In the end, adopting felt the most right (although we had to follow the tried and tested path before allowing ourselves this conclusion).
My Dad’s death last month, following an intense, but relatively short battle with cancer, has been the most visceral, powerful experience of my life, bar none – and I include childbirth in that. Watching someone I loved so much take their last breath when, for a few precious minutes, it was just me, and him, alone, was a privilege both terrible and beautiful.
I will never forget holding our son in my arms for the first time. He was 10 months. A chubby-cheeked, healthy boy, with a curious look. My brown-eyed boy. With silky soft olive skin. A little tired, and unsure about the situation. But he was calm looked straight at us, and as I held him he almost instantly lent onto my chest. And just lay there. Only self-control prevented my heart from bursting.