At 42, I finally got pregnant via an egg donor. Then my husband told me he didn’t want the baby. What he did next cut even deeper

Earlier this year I fulfilled a lifetime ambition, owning my very own campervan. Forgive me if I sound like a cliche, as a single, childless woman aged 51, with two sausage dogs for company. I’ll often tie my paddleboard to the roof and take off at the weekend.

And why shouldn’t I? This is not the life necessarily I planned for myself, but I’m making the most of it.

A decade ago I spent over a year trying to conceive naturally, suffering a devastating miscarriage in the process. When I then became pregnant via donor egg IVF, my husband freaked out at the idea of a child that wasn’t all ‘ours’, forcing me to undergo a termination. And, even after all that, he still dumped me, later settling down with a young, fertile woman who could have his child ‘as nature intended’.

I like to think I’m over it and embracing the second part of my life, but there are times when I think of my ex and the howling injustice. He can keep on reproducing until his final breath and yet women have a fertility window of 20 years (if we’re lucky). In that time, if we’re sensible, we try to ensure we’re in a loving relationship and in decent enough financial circumstances to raise a child.

I spent my 20s and 30s working in the antiques industry. Fluent in Spanish and Italian, my job took me all over Europe and I embraced every aspect of it, working all hours with no intention of settling down. I was far too busy enjoying life and all it had to offer.

Before I knew it I was 40 and still single. While I had enjoyed three semi-serious relationships, I knew I’d never met The One. On a whim I bought a holiday home in the Dolomites, a part of northern Italy I’d come to know well. It was there in 2015 that I met Mateo, who, like me, was in the antiques business.

What started as a fling grew serious pretty quickly. We fell in love. Within a year I found myself regarded as part of his family and the community, so I left my home in West Sussex to move lock, stock and barrel to Italy.

I was ten years older than Mateo, but to look at us as a couple you’d never know – I’ve always looked after myself (with a bit of tweakment help) and we shared the same zest for life and sense of humour. The age difference simply never seemed to bother him. So when Mateo asked me to marry him, I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. I knew he wanted to become a father and I wanted to become a mum.

I was 42 and two months pregnant when we got married in 2017, three months after he’d proposed. A fortnight after exchanging vows, I miscarried. We hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy and so we faced the grief alone. My gynaecologist assured me there was no reason to worry, now my body knew what to do, we should try again.

Mateo rallied around, looking after me and we had lots of fun trying. Every weekend we’d have lunch with his huge family or drinks with his wide circle of friends.

Occasionally I’d be asked if there was any ‘news’; I’d assure people we were trying and close down the conversation.

A year passed without a positive pregnancy test. By then I was about to celebrate my 43rd birthday so I booked another visit to the gynaecologist. When hormone tests showed my eggs weren’t viable, she mentioned that we should think about assisted fertility treatment with a donor egg.

While this option is common in many countries, it is less so in Italy and so she suggested we research clinics in Spain, where the procedure was widely available. When I explained this to Mateo, he was unsure at first but, after sleeping on it, assured me he was on board.

Within days I’d found a clinic with a glowing reputation. All of the private Facebook groups I was in said it was expensive – yes – but would guarantee results. It was €7,000 (£5,800) for each attempt. Fortunately, I had a small inheritance from my grandmother. Throughout it all, Mateo assured me that he was committed to the treatment we were signing up for.

The private Spanish clinic redefined the meaning of luxury. It was set in a renovated farmhouse, and the walls in the lobby were covered with testimonials to the clinic’s success and beautifully framed, handwritten thank-you notes. Our gynaecologist rattled off the patter about Spanish law, anonymity and the checks involved. We’d never know the identity of our donor and neither would our child. We went through the characteristics of the sort of donor we wanted – ideally someone who matched my hair colour, eye colour, height. Before we left, Mateo gave a sperm sample and we were told to wait to hear about a match.

The matching process happened very quickly. While the donor started to take drugs to stimulate her egg production, I was on medication to ensure my body would be ready to accept the fertilised embryos once her eggs had been removed and fertilised using my husband’s sperm.

All went to plan, resulting in four embryos of sufficient quality. The plan was to transfer two in our first round, and freeze two for use later. I’d been sent images of the embryos – admittedly at that point just round blobs – and I spent hours looking at the pictures. Whether fertilised in a Petri dish or in my womb, they were my babies. I’d secretly given them names (Sofia and Valentina) and talked to them every day. I was going to become a mum. I just knew it.

We travelled to Spain for the transfer, which went seamlessly and I left feeling certain that one day we’d be back for the other two.

During the two-week wait to see if the transfer had been successful, I’d sing to the embryos in my womb, gently willing them to implant and grow. Mateo wasn’t as excited as me, but I put that down to him being preoccupied with his work, running his family’s busy antiques restoration company.

Even before we got the positive pregnancy test, I’d had an inkling we were expecting. My breasts felt heavier and I developed a metallic taste in my mouth. The first eight weeks were tough, I felt nauseous for most of the time but I stayed focused on me and not me and Mateo. Is that where I went wrong? I do wonder.

We paid for a private eight-week scan, and I burst into tears on hearing the sound of a heartbeat – I just knew it was Sofia who had implanted and taken. Mateo looked bewildered. Mentally I dismissed his reaction as the enormity of fatherhood hitting him.

Back at home I circled the date when we were going to announce the news to everyone.

A few days after the scan I asked Mateo if, when we broke our big news to family and friends, he wanted to also explain we had conceived via a donor egg. It was then that my world fell apart. He got very upset telling me we shouldn’t have gone about it this way. He was, I suspect, frightened of how his family would react. He said that I’d tricked him into going down this route.

His arguments were totally unfair. I’d never lied to him and believed this was the only option left for us. Seeing his obvious distress made me painfully aware of our age gap. He might have been in his mid-30s but he was acting like a schoolboy. He simply wasn’t prepared for the grown-up conversations we needed to have around how we created our family and how we would navigate this together.

My default mode was one of frustration and anger. At the time I had no idea how to process these emotions. I was so tired from the pregnancy and trying to pull my marriage back from the brink. Mateo’s way of dealing with all of it was to avoid me. He’d leave for work first thing and come back late. This behaviour went on for a week, until he told me he didn’t want to be a father this way.

And then, nervous, he suggested perhaps we should make this (pointing to my stomach) go away and start again and see if we could do it naturally. When I asked if he meant undergoing a termination, he nodded. I was speechless, aghast he could suggest such a thing.

I asked him how he’d feel about his precious village knowing we had done that. It was then he burst into tears. Throughout the rest of the evening, he went on and on about how we shouldn’t have conceived this way and how it wasn’t right.

We slept in separate bedrooms that night, and my mind went into survival mode: should I move back to the UK, have our child and tell him where to go?

I realised this just wasn’t an option for me. I didn’t want to be a single parent. I had no long-term financial cushion. I’d read the scary headlines about the six-figure sums required to raise a child.

My parents had died and I didn’t have a vast network of supportive mum friends I could rely on back in the UK.

Despite everything, I still loved Mateo, our life together and his family and friends who had always supported me. I convinced myself we could start over and try again to conceive naturally.

I flew to London where I had a termination, away from the prying eyes of Mateo’s family. I went to the clinic on my own, although I was staying with a friend who was appalled by my predicament. As cowardly as it sounds, I dissociated from my body and the procedure. That was the only way I could get through it without breaking down. While in London, Mateo messaged me continually, checking I was OK, reassuring me how much he loved me.

Even though I’d had the termination because of him, I still wanted to get home, to my place of security and love.

However, from the moment I put the key in our front door, I found myself repulsed by him, I didn’t want him near me. On the first night, feigning sickness, I slept in a separate bedroom.

We struggled along for a few months, neither quite ready to sit down and work out what our future looked like, whether we even had one. I seethed with resentment towards Mateo and what he’d made me do and threw myself into work as a means of coping.

After returning from a week-long work trip, I discovered Mateo had moved in with his mum, a temporary arrangement, apparently. After I’d got over the shock, I realised how relieved I felt to have space.

A couple of days later I heard the familiar sound of his car on the drive. Mateo came in and explained that for his mental health he needed a break. Then, a month later, we had the conversation: he wasn’t coming back.

While a part of me, deep down, knew this was coming, I was still floored. I’d lost everything. My husband, my in-laws, our group of friends… and my chance of having children. As soon as everyone knew, the shutters went down, my in-laws would say hello to me on market days and if I bumped into them, but it was swift. I’m not sure what Mateo had told them about why our relationship had broken down and I didn’t want to know.

That winter passed by in a work-focused blur. When spring arrived with what would have been our due date, I recognised for my own emotional wellbeing, I needed to close this chapter of my life and move away.

Within weeks our house was on the market and a buyer snapped it up. Before I left, I asked Mateo what he wanted us to do with the remaining embryos. As I’d guessed he would, he said they should be destroyed. The same day I emailed the clinic to tell them of our decision, I sank into a black hole. I finally accepted that I needed antidepressants and took a low dose for the next two years.

Nine months after we split, in 2019, I returned to the UK, bought a cottage on the south coast, and have slowly rebuilt my life and myself.

Three years ago, Mateo called with the news he was married and going to be a father. Even though firmly back in the UK, the news still crushed me. I’d done so well in healing and yet I couldn’t stop crying. He deserves to be happy. But more importantly, I deserve happiness too.

I’ve been on a couple of dates in the last few years but it took me an awfully long time to grieve over the child I aborted, the husband I lost and the end of a life I thought I’d have forever.

Have I come to terms with never being a mum? No – and I’m sure every childless woman who wanted children, if they’re being honest with themselves, will know that you never ever do.

As told to SAMANTHA BRICK

Carrie Darbyshire is a pseudonym. All names and identifying details have been changed.

For support and information visit sands.org.uk