I was 38 years old and my biological clock was a ticking time bomb. I had a low ovarian reserve, and if I wanted a child, it was emergency stations – now or never. It felt like it was all my fault. As I sat in a fertility doctor’s office, I burst into tears – and dropped the tear-stained fertility report on the floor.
Why hadn’t I frozen my eggs if I’d known my mum had an early menopause? I had been so cavalier about motherhood, acting like I could have a child whenever I wanted. And why couldn’t I have been more practical and found a stable boyfriend – rather than placing all my chips on true love? The burden was on me – and me alone.
