Friday September 19th 2025
Guess what was in the pile of post Rog just brought me?
Should probably say at this point: still haven’t told Jones about Rog. Or fired Rog. I know it’s bad, but he’s not been on shift anyway, and Jones is just so happy at the mo! Can see the change in him. Can’t bear to share this crappy news and watch his good mood disappear.
Am just going to handle it myself, I’ve decided.
If I was here solo, this would be my task alone—no reason for me to drag Jones into it to help me.
Will fire Rog today. Thought about doing it just now, on the doorstep, but really didn’t want to, to be honest, then saw the return address on the top parcel and could suddenly think of nothing else but opening that envelope.
Rog has brought me my sperm catalog.
It’s not called that, obviously. The very fancy fertility clinic calls it the sperm donor bank. But it’s a big glossy catalog full of men’s profiles, and any one of them could be the father of my child.
There are no photos, but even so, it reminds me of flicking through a dating app—except I don’t have to talk to these people. Or fall in love with them. Or let them break my heart. They can’t hurt me, they can’t let me down and they’ll never leave me.
And looking through this catalog brings me a step closer to the dream that I fought to hold back for so long.
All the little elements that I’d catch myself thinking about when I wasn’t strong enough to shut the longing down.
A first flicker of movement in my belly.
A first cry. A first grip of a hand that I’ll hold through a first feed, and first steps, and first heartbreak—a hand I’ll hold as long as they need me to, whenever they need me.
Even writing it makes me cry, right here on these pages, but this time I’m not crying because I’m scared I’ll never have all those firsts. I’m crying with hope.
I can joke about sperm catalogs and make out like it’s all fun and easy but in truth this feels so monumental I can hardly bear it.
My test results were good; I have the money.
With help from one of these beautiful men who donated their sperm, I can probably have a baby.
It won’t be easy—have enough friends who’ve gone through fertility treatments to know that, and I’ve seen single mums struggling through those early months with a newborn on their own, but…
I also know without a shadow of a doubt that it’ll be worth it.
There are no words, really, for the way I want this. I’ve imagined each of those small steps so many thousands of times, always knowing that my chances diminish by the day unless I find the mythical man for me before it’s too late.
But here I am. Single, independent. And closer to my baby than I’ve ever been.
Was going to fire Rog as soon as I headed to the shop, I really was.
But got there to a stressed Marly: Rosie was out of action with bad cramps, so we were needed on the farm!
We left Toby in charge at the shop. (Spoiler alert as I am writing this at the end of the day: he survived!
Which, let’s be honest, it did not look as if he would when I suggested the idea.)
We were enlisted to clear rocks from Pipit Spinney, one of my favorite spots on the farm.
It’s this wedge-shaped little field that’s too small to be much use—you can hardly get a tractor in there—but I love it because it has the most amazing sea view, and because it’s surrounded by wild hedgerows packed with flowers and minibeasts.
This morning I swear I saw a stoat, which I thought was an extinct animal, so got very excited about it until Marly told me “they’re like bloody rats, don’t encourage them,” as though maybe I’d make them too big for their little stoat boots.
She didn’t let Ginger catch it, though, which is about as close as Marly gets to having a soft spot for something.
Anyway, Jones and I rolled our sleeves up (or, more accurately, tucked our trousers into our socks) and waded into the post-pig mud to clear the stones.
It was totally backbreaking work, and Jones was obviously better at it than me because he’s a big muscular man and I’m very much not that.
But was also surprisingly lovely. Ginger wagging between us, the smell of freshness and roots and reality in the autumn air… Gorgeous.
Brianna rang me while I was there. I stepped out of earshot to take the call, finding a tree stump where I could sit down.
“Hey! Ooh, wow, it’s nice not bending over for a minute.”
“Hello,” Brianna said, “what have I interrupted?”
“Moving rocks!”
“Moving…Never mind. I saw your short list—are you seriously considering letting a man called Keith put his sperm into you?”
“Bri! He won’t be putting anything anywhere, it’s a medical procedure, very straightforward, very nonsexual, and also, he’s not actually called Keith. I just gave them all names so I don’t get the contenders muddled—they’re just called, like, Donor 1989 or whatever.”
“Oh. Why would you choose Keith? Nobody fancies Keith.”
“I don’t want to fancy him,” I said, a little impatiently. “That’s the joy of this! I’m not required to sleep with him at all!”
“Are you still very anti having sex with anyone?”
Found myself gazing at Jones across the field as she said this.
“Sex is not relevant to the sperm conversation,” I said. “Once again, Bri, this is the point.”
“No, I get that, I’ve segued.”
“Seamless, as always.”
“What if you do meet someone one day? What if they mind that Keith’s your baby daddy?”
“Then they’d need to work on being a bit more open-minded, wouldn’t they?” I said. “Seriously, though, I don’t want to think about meeting someone or falling in love. I’m done with that. I want to do this alone, for me.”
My voice broke a bit on that last word. God, authenticity is embarrassing.
“And you know I love that for you,” Brianna said. “But please. Not Keith. He’s a Pisces, anyway—it would never work.”
“It doesn’t have to—”
“I’m teasing, I’m teasing.” There was a beat. “Do you think, if you met someone who really wanted to be a father…”
“Your obsession with me having a traditional family structure is giving me the ick.”
“It’s not about that. You know I totally support you in becoming a single mum. I just don’t know that I want you to write off romantic love forever as part of this decision.”
“You’re just way too happily married to talk to about this.
It’s hard to find someone who’s as perfect for me as Stu is for you, and I’m done with waiting on that miracle to occur before I get to have a baby.
I know some people are lucky and get pregnant well into their forties, but I’m scared, Bri—I might not be one of those people.
And honestly, I don’t want to wait until then anyway.
You know what it feels like, wanting a baby—how overpowering that feeling can be. ”
“Well, what if your little one is five and then you meet the love of your life?”
“My little one is going to be the love of my life!” I chirped, then I toned down the Cheerful Charlie voice—am really trying to give up on all that fake stuff. “I’m just not thinking about romantic love right now.”
“I get that. Believe me. You know I love my kids more than life itself. But I also love my husband, and it’s not either-or, that’s all I’m saying. You’ve got more than one love story in that big smushy heart of yours.”
“My heart is not smushy. Smushed, maybe.”
“Oh, please. You sound happier than you’ve sounded in years. Are you telling me you’re still heartbroken?”
Hmm. Didn’t answer for a while.
“Having a little poke around in that chest cavity, are you?” she asked, after I’d been quiet for a bit too long.
“Gross. No, I haven’t really thought about romance for a while, I guess. So I’m thinking about it.”
Was actually buying time. The whole chat had shaken me a bit.
“I guess…if…one day…someone who really, honestly wanted children, and would love mine like their own…God, it feels weird to even say it. But yes, I suppose it’s theoretically possible I could date this theoretically open-minded man who wants kids. Or, specifically, wants my kid.”
“There we go,” Brianna said with satisfaction. “She’s ready to love again, ladies and gentlemen.”
Of course will not be loving again right now, as discussed.
But what she said about being happy…I am, actually.
The grief is still there, the loss, the guilt, but it doesn’t press on me the way it did.
Doesn’t…suffocate me. I’ve been so busy, so preoccupied, so focused on my new goals—I haven’t even noticed that the broken heart I thought I’d carry forever has been quietly mending.
No more delaying. Am on a Rog hunt.
Ugh, my stomach’s churning. Don’t want to do this. He’s going to hate me, for starters. Rest of the team will, too, and the committee—everyone loves Rog. But what else can I do?
At least I’ve managed to keep Jones out of it. Feel quite proud of myself, really. Am not naturally inclined to be Bad Cop, but am being brave and taking one for the team.
Hmm. Bad afternoon. Jones did not see it that way. More when I have a chance to write.
Eventually tracked Rog down on his tractor on the way to one of the polytunnels up at the northern end of Bramblebay, where they’re still picking the last of the strawberries.
“Rog, we need to talk!” I shouted up at him over the roar of the tractor’s old engine.
“What’s that?” he yelled down at me.
“We need to talk! Can you turn off the engine, please, Rog?”
“What do you want with Benji?”
“What? No, the engine, Rog.”
“Benji’s a good dog, but he’s not much help with the sheep—is it Kim who sent you?”
“No, Rog, I’m just—could you turn off the engine?”
“Tell Kim to try Baptiste’s collie, he’s not bad in a pinch. I’m on my way to the strawberries!”
“Right! Can you…” I was doing a very awkward jog to keep pace with the tractor. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Do you want to climb in?” Rog said, finally stopping. “Can’t hear you all the way down there!”