MY SON Stuart was five days old when the realisation hit me like a physical blow: having a child had been the biggest mistake of my life.

Even now, 33 years on, I can still picture the scene: Stuart was asleep in his crib. He was due to be fed but hadn't yet woken.

I heard him stir but as I looked at his round face on the brink of wakefulness, I felt no bond. No warm rush of maternal affection.

I felt completely detached from this alien being who had encroached upon my settled married life and changed it, irrevocably, for the worse.

I was 22 when I had Stuart, who was a placid and biddable baby. So, no, my feelings were not sparked by tiredness, nor by post-natal depression or even a passing spell of baby blues.

Quite simply, I had always hated the idea of motherhood. In that instant, any lingering hope that becoming a mum would cure me of my antipathy was dispelled.

I remember asking myself, "Is he really mine?" He could, quite literally, have been anyone's baby. Had a kind stranger offered to adopt him at that moment, I would not have objected.

Two years and four months after Stuart was born, I had my daughter Jo. It may seem perverse that I had a second child in view of my aversion to them, but I believe it is utterly selfish to have an only one.

I felt precisely the same indifference towards her as I had to Stuart, but I knew I would care for Jo to the best of my ability, and love her as I'd grown to love him.

Yet I dreaded her dependence; resented the time she would consume, and that like parasites, both my children would continue to take from me and give nothing meaningful back in return.

Whenever I've told friends I wished I'd never had them, they've gasped with shock. "You can't mean that?" But, of course, I do.

What I valued most in my life was time on my own; to reflect, read and enjoy my own company and peace of mind.

And suddenly that peace and solitude wasn't there any more. There were two small interlopers intruding on it. And I've never got that peace back.

I know there are millions who will consider me heinously cold-blooded and unnatural, but I believe there will also be those who secretly feel the same.

It's just that I have been honest - some may contend brutally so - and admitted to my true feelings. In doing so I have broken a supposedly inviolable law of nature. What kind of mother, after all, wishes she hadn't had children?

I have never hidden the truth from my husband Tony, now 62.

From the moment we decided we would be spending the rest of our lives together, I confessed I didn't want to start a family.

I suppose he imagined, as my friends started having babies, the urge to become a mum would overwhelm me. I hoped he'd change his mind.

After a couple of years of marriage, Tony began to ask whether I was still adamant that I didn't want children. In the end I relented because I loved him and felt it would be unfair of me to deny him the chance to be a dad.

Tony and I had a strong marriage - after 37 years, we still do - and I did not dread the effect of the baby on our relationship. Sure enough, we maintained an active and fulfilling sex life and made a date night each Friday when Tony's parents baby-sat.

However, I did dread the encroachment of this demanding little being on my own independence.

I never wanted to hurt Stuart - I only wanted him to prosper and thrive. There is no doubt I grew to love him very much, and indeed still do. But I always wished I had never had him.

It was not that I seethed each day with resentment towards my children; more that I felt oppressed by my constant responsibility for them. Young children prevent you from being spontaneous; every outing becomes an expedition.

I know my life with Tony would have been so much happier without children, less complicated and more carefree.

Jo, 31, shares my opinion about motherhood: she has never wanted children; perhaps my views have shaped hers.

It is her tragedy that eight years ago she developed multiple sclerosis and had to give up her job as a chef. She is now bed-bound and lives with Tony and me.

I am her full-time carer and if I could have MS instead of her, I gladly would. She knows I would do anything to relieve her suffering and that I will care for her as long as I am able. I am 57 now and as I approach old age, I have an ever-more dependent daughter.

Yet I would cut off my right arm if she or Stuart needed it.

And that, maybe, is the paradox. I am a conscientious and caring parent - yet perhaps I would have resented my children less had I not been.

For the story by Isabella Dutton, go to the Daily Mail.

