At first, from the outside, Bill and I must have looked like a newly married couple planning to have children. Anyone could see we were in love. Anyone could see we were making a home together. Anyone could see how much we opened our hearts to other people’s children.
We lived in Bill’s house, and I put my own touch on it: a new sofa and love seat for the living room, the bedroom furniture that had belonged to my grandparents went into the guest room, Nana’s china and Aunt Lena’s cut glass in a new teak cabinet. The tall tropical plants that Bill’s ex-wife had left behind gradually died, and I replaced them with the hardy plants that kept on no matter what. Lipstick, hoya, mother-in-law’s tongue.
Hardly anyone asked about our plans. Maybe they thought it was for children that Bill and I had finally married after three years together. Me still young enough to be fertile. Bill still young enough to not be a terribly old father. Maybe they figured it was a matter of time before we announced some news.
Time went by. One year. Two. Our home began to tell the answers to questions no one asked. I took on the garden, pulled out the big square of lawn and added terraced rock walls and tall grasses. Who would do this if they were going to have children? Children need grass to run in. Who would buy a glass dining table with sharp corners? A white carpet?
These were the luxuries of a childless life. I could have precious things. When we traveled, I could leave those rocks, those tall grasses, and not worry about a lawn overgrowing and turning brown. We could sleep late, make love loud, eat when we wanted.
In late summer, two years into our marriage, Bill and I went with a group of friends to the countryside west of Portland to see a piece of property one couple had recently purchased. The land was grassy meadow surrounded by cedars. The new landowners walked through the long grass, bending a path to show where they might build a house overlooking the valley. All the other couples had children, but they’d left them at home. We started to set up a picnic.
The husband of one couple that I didn’t know well walked to the car with me when I went to get a blanket and the fruit and cheese I’d prepared. By now our friends knew we traveled, and this man asked about our latest trip to the Olympic National Park. I told him about hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest. The mossy ground that made each step a whisper, the nurse trees, fallen cedars giving life to new saplings.
This man said he’d love to go there. “But, you know”—he glanced back at his wife—“we’re pretty busy. The kids. Hard to get away.” His wife used to be slim and strong, a runner. She used to wear lipstick. Now she had dark circles under her eyes, a thickened waist, pale lips.
He said, “Are you and Bill going to have kids?”
He and his wife had two kids and, whenever I saw him with them, one or the other leaned up against him, arms wrapped around his legs, his hand stroking downy child hair. I figured he would tell me how great it was, that he loved being a dad, that he’d had no idea how amazing it would be.
“We’re not,” I said. I took a breath, getting ready to tell him why.
Before I got past that breath, he said, “That’s really cool.” He lowered his voice. “You guys are living the kind of life I’d like to have. Traveling. Free.” He shrugged. “It’s hard. You know. I mean don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. But. If I had to do it over again.” He folded his arms across his chest. Looked down at his feet, white tennis shoes dusty. He was telling me of a secret affair with a life he didn’t have. He shrugged. “You miss out on other stuff. You know? So it’s cool. That you have the guts to not do what everyone expects.”
Up until now I’d known only the romance I made up, of men with pregnant wives. His hand on her belly, feeling the heartbeat. Talking of names. Him taking care of her. The romance of men in the birthing room, his hand gripped by hers as she pushed and he brushed the hair from her forehead, urging her on. The romance of men with their babies. Two big hands holding a tiny infant. A toddler hugging her father’s leg, him lifting her up. Big smile on his face, sunshine and daisies in a field.
But here was this man, telling me the value of my choice. Part of me wanted to hug him, for the relief his words gave me. Another part wanted to shake him. For telling me. The secret in it. Had he known this before he had his children? Did she know about his regret? I didn’t think so, not with how he kept glancing over his shoulder.
A jolt of love for Bill spread through me. He was a man who told me everything inside him. He drew his lines clearly: This is what I will do. This is what I will not do. He did not have regret.
Which man would I choose if I had the choice?
The one I’d already chosen.
But still.