When my ex and I separated, I made a life-changing decision: to become a single mother through sperm donation. I wanted to be certain where my child came from. But when we returned to my hometown, the way old friends stared at my son made my stomach twist.
My divorce papers had barely dried when I decided I wanted a baby—not a partner, just a child to call my own. Ethan, my ex, had made it clear he never wanted kids, and when he asked for a separation, my path became clear. I’d become a mother, even if it meant doing it alone.
“You’re really doing this?” my best friend, Olivia, asked one night, sprawled on my couch as I scrolled through sperm donor profiles. “You’re only 28, Amelia.”
“And getting older every day.” I clicked through another profile. “The perfect donor could show up anytime.”
“The perfect donor,” she scoffed. “Like you’re picking out shoes online.”
“Better than my dating history.” I closed the laptop and rubbed my eyes. “At least these guys are screened for genetic diseases and criminal records. More than I can say for Ethan.”
Olivia snorted, handing me a soda. “Fair point. But don’t you want your kid to have a dad?”
“They’ll have me. That’s enough,” I replied, thinking of Ethan’s disgusted reaction when I’d mentioned having kids. He’d looked at me like I’d suggested moving to Mars.
“Besides,” I added, “plenty of kids grow up happy with single parents.”
Night after night, I poured over donor profiles, searching for the right match. Six-foot-two, brown hair, medical degree. It felt like crafting a dream man—but one whose role ended at DNA contribution.
Jude, my childhood best friend, supported me through it all. When I decided to leave Atlanta for a fresh start, he even helped pack my things. “Connecticut?” he asked, taping a box shut. “That’s practically Canada.”
“It’s where my mom grew up,” I said. “I need a new start.”