After my divorce, I made the decision to become a single mother through sperm donation, ensuring I knew exactly where my son came from. However, when we returned to my hometown, the way my old friends stared at him made me feel uneasy.
The divorce was still fresh when I decided I wanted a baby—not a husband, not a boyfriend—just a child to call my own.
Ethan, my ex, had made it clear he never wanted kids and asked for a separation. I knew right away that I would still become a mother, even if it was on my own.
“You’re really going through with this?” my friend Olivia asked while sitting on my couch, watching me browse through sperm donor profiles. “You’re only 28.”
“And getting older by the minute,” I replied, scrolling through more profiles. “Besides, the right donor could show up any time.”
Olivia snorted. “Like picking the father of your child is like online shopping.”
“Better than my dating history,” I sighed, shutting my laptop. “At least these guys are pre-screened for genetic diseases and criminal records. More than I can say for Ethan.”
“True,” she agreed, handing me a soda. “But what about love? Don’t you want your kid to have a dad?”
“They’ll have me. That’s enough.”
I remembered how Ethan recoiled when I mentioned having kids, as if I’d suggested something outlandish.
“Besides, plenty of kids grow up happy with just one parent.”
Searching for a donor became a nightly ritual—six-foot-two, brown hair, medical degree. I treated it like finding my dream man, except this one would only contribute DNA—no mess, no disappointments, no more Ethan.
My best friend, Jude, supported me through it all. He even helped me pack when I decided to move to Connecticut for a fresh start.
“Connecticut?” Jude said, taping up boxes with a concerned look. “That’s practically Canada.”
“It’s where my mom grew up. She loved it there. I need a change,” I replied, labeling the boxes.
“But what if you need help with the baby?” he asked, still worried.
“That’s what babysitters are for,” I laughed, nudging him. “Stop stressing.”
Jude threw me a farewell party, and despite Olivia’s wild drink mixing, Jude made sure I didn’t faceplant into my cake. But looking back, I should have known something might happen that night.
The following week, I went through with the insemination procedure and left Atlanta behind.
Nine months later, my son Alan was born, perfect and healthy. I felt a love for him that I’d never imagined.
Eight years later, I decided to return home to help my sick mother. Alan and I made the trip, and I explained to him that we’d be seeing my old friends. He was excited about the adventure.
At first, I hadn’t planned on staying long, just long enough to help my mom recover. But walking through familiar streets made me realize that Alan needed roots—something more than just me—and maybe it was time to face the past.
However, something strange started happening. Everywhere I went, people would stare at Alan in shock, whispering to each other. It wasn’t long before I started to notice the strange reactions were always the same.
At the summer festival, I ran into Jude, who looked older but still the same. He was with his wife, Eleanor. After catching up, Jude’s gaze lingered on Alan, who was happily eating a corn dog.
“This is Alan,” I introduced, feeling uneasy. “My son.”
Eleanor smiled but frowned, and Jude looked like he’d seen a ghost.
It suddenly hit me: Alan’s features—the curls, the way he laughed, his posture—he looked just like Jude had at that age.
“How old is he?” Jude asked, his voice cracking.
“Eight,” I said, feeling like the ground shifted beneath me. The timing of everything suddenly made sense—my procedure happened right after that farewell party.
As we processed the realization, we agreed to get a paternity test. The results would take two weeks, but I knew that Jude would want to be a part of Alan’s life if the test showed he was his father.
Jude had always been responsible and dependable—of course, he’d want to be a father to his son. I wasn’t sure how his wife would feel about it, though.
But one thing was clear: my life as a single mom was about to change, and this time, I wasn’t running away.
Sometimes, the best stories are the ones we never intended to write.
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