I grew up poor, the eldest of several siblings, and spent my childhood playing “mom #2.” I changed diapers, cooked meals, and missed out on friendships because someone had to babysit. That experience shaped me—I decided early on I never wanted kids. I’ve lived that life already, and I want something different. I want freedom, peace, and a future that’s mine. I’m not selfish. I’m just done sacrificing my identity for someone else’s needs.
Now I’m in my mid-20s, living with my boyfriend. He’s funny, kind, and we connect deeply—except on one major issue. He wants kids. He keeps saying I’ll “change my mind,” but I’ve told him again and again: I won’t. We’re barely making ends meet, and the thought of repeating the cycle of poverty terrifies me. I want to live for myself for once. But he doesn’t seem to hear me, and that silence is starting to feel loud.
Then came the puppy. He surprised me with it, hoping it would “awaken my maternal instincts.” I was stunned. A living creature shouldn’t be used to manipulate someone’s life choices. I’m not anti-puppy, but I am anti-pressure. His gesture felt less like love and more like a test I never agreed to take. It wasn’t romantic—it was invasive. And now I’m stuck between loving him and feeling deeply disrespected.
I’m asking myself the hard questions now. Is he in love with me—or with the version of me he hopes I’ll become? If he’s banking on change, then he’s not really choosing me. I’ve spent my whole life putting others first. This chapter is supposed to be mine. And if he can’t respect that, maybe love isn’t enough. I’m not giving up my childfree life. I’m finally choosing myself.
