I left the tall marble building through the revolving door just like I had many times before over the past five years. Squinting my eyes tightly from the brightness of the autumn sun, I quickened my pace as the people dressed in professional attire bustled by me.

I sensed my fate and felt it in my limbs. The sun shouldn't be shining on a day like this.

I thought about my marriage. My Rene. How 10 years earlier I had asked him why he wanted to marry me. Having only known me for half a year, I teasingly warned him there could be undesirable qualities lurking beneath my exterior facade, only to emerge and blossom after the full-scale marriage ceremony.

He smiled down at me and with a glow in his hazel eyes and his masculine breath close to mine he said: "All I know for certain Darling, is that I want you to be the mother of my children."

Shortly after arriving home from the infertility clinic the phone rang as expected: "Ms de Vries, the pregnancy test is negative. We'll have to try again," the nurse sounded matter of fact. "When would you like to come in for your next appointment?"

The following week our infertility specialist, with tanned skin and gleaming teeth, encouraged us never to give up hope, as he put our hard-earned cheque into his solid mahogany desk drawer.

How many painful and invasive procedures was I expected to endure? Procedures. The word conjures up thoughts of aliens and what they do to human species captured in their spaceship.

Well, that is what it was like. On that day we stopped the treatments, not because we wanted to or thought we should, but just simply because we could hardly function anymore. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get out of bed, face work, the dishes, or even feeding our bird. It was time to quit and we both knew it.

It seemed that everyone was getting pregnant around us: family members, friends, teenagers, women in the shopping malls, on the streets; they were everywhere. Mother's Day was particularly difficult because I was the only one who wasn't a mother in my large extended family and therefore I was the only female in the kitchen doing the dishes with the men while tears formed in my eyes. (Later the family, sensing my distress, renamed Mother's Day to Women's Day so I could also sit in the living room with the other females.)

We didn't know what to say to our friends and family when they tried to cheer us up. We were tired of pretending that they could positively impact our moods.

Infertility is not the kind of loss that one can openly grieve; there is no funeral for a child that never was. I think the feeling is similar to losing a loved one lost in action. One doesn't know if he/she is dead or alive, if he/she will ever return, and you just keep hoping, keep searching for signs of life!

Some people told us how lucky we were that we didn't have any children: you can go to the movies at any time without hiring a babysitter. You can read the newspaper in peace. If you want kids so badly, why don't you borrow mine, I'd love to be rid of them for a while.

It was my dad who first suggested adoption. "If you want to see what you look like - look in the mirror." Our therapist was much harsher on us, "Parenting is much more than just producing a replica of yourselves. If that is your sole intention then you don't deserve to be parents." Luckily we still had a sense of humour and were able to laugh at his forthrightness.

We signed up with a promising private adoption agency. We paid the fees, went to the meetings, were carefully scrutinised by the staff, filled out the forms, and then waited.

After some time passed we learned that a baby was available for adoption, and, after reading our file, a birth mother was considering us as potential adoptive parents for her child. She was from Dutch decent just like us.

"Yes, yes," we enthusiastically exclaimed.

Months passed by while we waited for the birth of our baby. I passed by the baby departments without buying anything, not wanting to jinx it... and then, we received a phone call.

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