I never expected to not be a mother. My body is made for childbearing — generous hips, plenty of soft flesh for an infant to hang on to. I also love babies, their tiny fingernails, their first gummy smiles, the way they fit in the crook of my arms, a bundle of warmth. And while I’ve always been ambitious in my career, I’m also an alpha nurturer, the one friends and colleagues call when they need to vent or just hear a soothing word or two. So how did I get to be 53 and childless? I can’t say it was a choice, exactly, though you’d think I’d have made a conscious decision about something so important. It wasn’t due to malfunctioning equipment, either. At 27 and in the hospital for a gynecological procedure, my surgeon gushed: “Your ovaries and fallopian tubes look beautiful. You’re good to go!” I never went. For one thing, I was a late bloomer in love; I didn’t truly give over my heart for the first time until I was close to 30. Instead, I spent my 20s in New York City with other single friends, most of us more focused on work than on marriage. And even when a few of those friends began to walk down the aisle, I was content to savor the relatively new joy of being part of a couple, married or no. A baby felt like something that would definitely happen — of course it would — but in good time. I wanted to get the love thing right first, to learn how to be in a healthy relationship. The healthy relationship took a long time coming. After that first major love affair ended, leaving me heartbroken for months, I cautiously took up with others, a series of mini-marriages, each lasting four or five years and taking me straight through to 40. With each boyfriend, there was talk of weddings, of future children, even shared real estate, but always, something held me back, a sense that I hadn’t yet found my home, the man who would feel like family. Of course, for many people, the word family is synonymous with children. During the years of my ultimately failed relationships, my younger sister gave birth to two beautiful boys, nephews I held in my arms only minutes after they’d emerged from her body, the first child full-lipped and wriggly, the second saucer-eyed and long-lashed like my sister, a little round hunk of sweetness. I loved those boys so hard it hurt. As soon as I was able, I’d steal them away to my nearby apartment for sleepovers, my sister always generous when it came to sharing. When they were old enough to talk, the boys took to calling me Aunt Yes, because I never said no, and why would I? Whatever gifts I gave them were given back to me in spades, each boy teaching me what it was like to wake with a little body curled next to mine, the sweet sound of a toddler’s prattling before coffee. Later, I took each nephew to Rome, my favorite city, navigating the narrow cobblestoned streets and steering them into the best places for pizza and gelato. When Italians fussed over the boys, assuming I was their mother, I felt a little thrill. Yet despite the delight I took in my sister’s sons, the way my stomach lurched whenever yet another pal with that telltale glow would say, breathlessly, I have news! I did nothing about my childless state. Instead, I continued to wait for a man who would make me feel cared for before I started caring for anyone else. At times, I wondered if I was simply selfish, unwilling to give up my freedom, my travels, or even the ability to stay late at the office to nail a tough deadline. Maybe, as nurturing as I seemed, I lacked some essential motherhood gene, or the right level of estrogen. Because certainly, most of my friends seemed clear enough about wanting kids. Many, having waited to marry, like I was waiting, were starting to take drastic measures on the reproductive front. One adopted a daughter with her husband at 47; a few friends resorted to donor eggs. Some just ended up getting lucky, becoming pregnant relatively easily long past their peak fertility. Those burgeoning 40-something bellies were the most painful for me to see, evidence that it was possible to get pregnant just under the wire. I gamely threw these friends baby showers but inside, I anticipated the loss of another friend no longer available to grab a glass of wine at a moment’s notice. I also mourned the bigger loss, of the experience of pregnancy, of being a mother, choices I hadn’t definitively made but that I seemed to be choosing all the same. Not that I gave up hope entirely. Sometimes, I told myself I’d be willing to adopt — a little girl from China! — or from whatever country would give babies to single women older than 40. Or I’d consider the turkey-baster method, find a sperm donor or a willing ex, and become a mother on my own, no husband required. Many nights, I’d lie awake in my one-bedroom apartment, arranging furniture in my head: If I moved the desk into the living room, I could fit a little crib right there. By morning, I could see things more clearly and would think, really think about what it would take to raise a child in a small city apartment that faced an air shaft, without a washing machine or dishwasher. I’d think about my job in print journalism, an industry that was seeming increasingly wobbly. Ultimately, the idea of creating a family consisting of just two — me and a baby — seemed frightening, financially and emotionally. More than that, I somehow knew I didn’t want my entire life to center around a child. That didn’t seem fair to the child, or to me. When I met the man who was to become my husband, an adventurous traveler with a tender heart, the man who felt like family, I was a ripe 44, our relationship unfolding so effortlessly that it stoked my remaining sliver of hope: Maybe it’s not too late! So when he brought up the subject of children a few months in — Do you want any? — I decided to be honest, to risk scaring him away with the truth. “Well, biologically, I think it’s too late for me,” I started shakily. “But if I found the right person I’d be willing to adopt.” “Uh oh,” was his reply. “Why uh oh?” I asked, my heart sinking a little. “I’m done in the kid department,” he said, gently but firmly. “My two kids are just about launched; one’s out of the house, another almost. I’m ready for the next phase.” A moment passed. And again, I chose the man over the theoretical child. “That seems fair,” I said. “After all, if I’d wanted a baby badly enough, I’d have made it happen.”