A letter to the son I’ll never have
Trigger Warning:
This post discusses sensitive topics including infertility, miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and abuse. If these subjects are difficult or triggering for you, please take care while reading or consider skipping this piece.
If I was writing a letter to the son I’ll never have, it might start with “Dear You,” and it might end with “Love, Me.” It would explain why I’m not concerned about someone carrying on the family name. It might talk about how I’ll never pressure anyone to give me grandchildren. I’d tell this nameless, faceless child how I’ve known for years that I don’t have that maternal streak in the way that some people do. I have no desire to bring a miniature version of my partner into the world, to care for and protect. The thought terrifies me and fills me with dread. Caring for myself and a spouse is challenging enough on the tough days. I know I couldn’t handle an additional person depending on me. There are things I don’t want to risk my husband passing down to the son I’ll never have, both mental and physical. There is no part of me that cares to be a witness to first words and concerts, breakups, graduations and all the other accomplishments that parents are an audience for.
I’d probably tell him about how it’s very much a man’s world, but he can use his privilege to help change that. I’d explain why he shouldn’t approach a woman who is walking to their car in a dark parking lot alone, to meet new dates in a public place so that the other person feels safe and comfortable.
I’d also tell him that women are so much more than their appearance and that a potential partner or significant other doesn’t owe it to him to look a certain way. And what someone is or isn’t wearing has nothing to do with their rights or what they deserve. These things must be taught. They must, because we’ve seen what happens to men who aren’t raised this way, not to mention the potential outcome for those who come into their lives. I don’t want to look a child in the face and tell them that girls will be watching their drinks, to always ask verbal consent even if it feels silly or unnecessary.
And while I am not maternal, I don’t want to introduce a person into the world who could cause danger and create fear for others through any kind of abuse.
I know I’d tell him about my own experiences of being a girl, what it was like to be taught that a man was a provider, that a date or partner had the potential to be violent and cause hurt. I’d repeat what I heard from an early age, that a man should never hit a woman. Ever. And I’d try to explain how there were plenty of people out there who supported a leader who seems to thrive on hurting women through his words and his actions.
The I’ll-never-have letter would conclude with something about the dynamic between my dad and myself, the disconnect between how I was raised and what he prioritizes now. I’d describe the panic I’d feel at the idea of having a son who took advantage of a woman or who didn’t treat her as an equal. And I would try my hardest to be clear about why this choice is the right choice for me. How the last thing this world needs is another unwanted child who is made to feel uncared for, like they are a mistake. That for the sake of many, including myself, I will not replicate or procreate, will not bring into being the son I’ll never have.
