Mina always imagined her future with quiet certainty: morning light spilling over soft nursery walls, the rhythmic breath of a sleeping baby, tiny fingers curled tightly around her own. Her life’s dream wasn’t extravagant; she wanted warmth, continuity, and a childhood for someone else that felt gentler than the one she’d known.
At 32, things were falling into place. Her career in sustainable architecture had just opened doors abroad. Her husband, Alexei, was the calm Mina had long hoped to find. They had started making real plans, researching fertility options, exploring adoption, and daydreaming about bedtime stories and snack preferences.
Then came the lump. Small and hard, just above her collarbone. She mentioned it during a routine check-up, more as an afterthought than a concern.
Within weeks, it was no longer a curiosity but a diagnosis, a diagnosis for Hodgkin lymphoma.
Her oncologist used reassuring words: “treatable” and “high success rate”. But then came the caveat that flattened the room: “There’s a significant risk to fertility. I recommend you consider egg preservation before we begin treatment.”
That night, Mina sat with Alexei in the quiet of their apartment, her thoughts tangled. Fertility had always felt like a door she would open when ready. Now it felt like it might be sealing shut.
They moved fast. Consultations, hormone injections, and sleepless nights. Mina’s mornings blurred into blood draws and ultrasounds. Her body, once a trusted vessel, was now a ticking clock under fluorescent lights.
“A good number,” the specialist said. But Mina felt no relief, only the strangeness of seeing her future frozen in nitrogen and filed under “maybe”.
Chemo began. Her hair thinned. Her energy frayed. But it was the invisible grief that weighed most: the slow, silent withdrawal from hope. Baby stores, pregnancy announcements—they all began to sting.
In the infusion centre, Mina met Asha, a woman with salt-and-pepper curls and a steady, dry wit. Over appointments, they built a quiet friendship.
“Do you ever want kids?” Asha asked one day.
“Yeah,” Mina said. “Still do, I think.”
Asha nodded. “Life has ways of rewriting itself. Sometimes, all you can do is keep reading.”
That stayed with her—not comfort, just truth.
By winter, Mina’s scans showed improvement. The future, once fragile, was beginning to unfold again.
One evening, as snow brushed the windows, Alexei said, “If it’s just us, I want you to know that’s more than enough. But if there’s a way to grow our family, I’m with you every step.”
They turned to adoption, applications, interviews, training sessions, etc. It was humbling and strangely hopeful.
Mina found herself drawn to older children, kids who had lived through uncertainty and still deserved a beginning.
Then came the call.
A social worker introduced them to Naya, a six-year-old with a love for space documentaries and mismatched socks.
“She’s sharp,” the worker said. “And she asks a lot of questions.”
At their first meeting, Naya eyed them both and asked:
“Are you married? Do you have a dog? What’s your favourite cereal?”
They answered honestly and left with cautious hope.
As the visits continued, Naya inched closer each time. Her questions deepened. One evening, while colouring on the floor, she asked,
“You had something wrong with your body, right?”
“I did,” Mina replied gently. “But I’m okay now.”
“My mom had something wrong too,” Naya said. “But she didn’t get better.”
Mina reached out, and Naya took her hand.
The adoption was finalised on a grey Tuesday in fall. In the courtroom, Naya sat between them, legs swinging beneath the chair. Alexei squeezed Mina’s hand.
That night, walking through a leaf-strewn park, Naya said, “I’m telling people I have a mom who draws and a dad who fixes stuff and always burns pancakes.”
Mina laughed through tears. “That sounds just right.”
Sometimes Mina still thinks about those twelve frozen eggs, about the life she imagined and the one she now lives.
More and more, she understands that parenthood isn’t just biology. Its presence. It’s choosing someone over and over.
Her story didn’t go as planned. But in quiet moments, bedtime stories, lunchbox notes, and Saturday pancakes, it feels complete.
Not the life she expected, but the one she’s deeply grateful to live.
Senior Editor: Katheeja Imani
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