After a year of marriage without any sign of a child, my husband’s family started mounting pressure on me—but we ignored them. Then the pressure came from our church—we ignored them too. Next, it was friends, then co-workers, and by the time we were married for five years, everyone around us seemed to have one question: "Where are the kids?" as if they were going to help raise them.

I was sad. I was angry. I was frustrated. Every person who asked didn’t want children more than I did. I didn’t need to be reminded daily of the one thing that wasn’t happening for me. It wasn’t fair.

If I wore high heels, people would say that’s why I wasn’t getting pregnant. If I wore tight clothes, they’d say that was the reason. If I dared to go out and enjoy myself, they’d be quick to point fingers, saying that was why I didn’t have kids. Even what I ate and drank became fodder for criticism. Some went as far as to whisper that I must have had numerous abortions. It was relentless. It was painful. I cried often.

The only saving grace through it all was my husband. He was my lawyer. He defended me. He comforted me. He fought people for me. He was the only soldier in my battle, the only shelter in my storm. We were in this together—at least, that’s what I thought.

Until one day, I found out he had fathered a child with another woman. His family had even gone with him to name the baby. We were in the seventh year of our marriage when this happened. I was devastated. I told him I was leaving.

His apology? “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if I was sterile too.” And then he added, “Please don’t be mad. Let’s raise this child together. You don’t have one, so let’s focus on raising this one.”

I hated what he said. When he took me to meet his baby mama and child, I hated it even more. The baby looked just like him—adorable, innocent. I felt a mix of emotions—pity for myself, jealousy for his baby mama, and deep anger toward my husband. Each time he went to visit them, I got angry. Every time he sent them money, I died a little inside.

Eventually, I filed for divorce. I had cried enough. He tried to beg me, but I refused. He sent our pastor to speak to me. When I met with him, the pastor said, “You don’t even have a child, so be happy another woman has had one for you.”

His mother called too. She said, “Another woman has made you a complete woman and your husband a complete man. Stop being bitter and have your own child if you are going to be mad.”

But I wasn’t hurt. By then, I had already heard worse from her and others. People had cruelly said, “A woman who can’t get pregnant is a man.” They acted like my inability to conceive somehow made me less of a woman.

Finally, we divorced. I got my own place, and for the first time, I was alone. But I wasn’t happy. I was depressed. I wanted to be a "real woman" too. It wasn’t fair.

A year after the divorce, something unexpected happened. I became a mom—but not in the way people expected. I found three abandoned puppies who desperately needed a mom, so I became their mom. For the first time in years, I felt happiness. I looked forward to coming home after work. The house wasn’t quiet anymore. I had three babies who were always excited to see me. I talked to them about my day, and in their own way, they shared theirs too.

Finally, I felt like a mother. Finally, I was a "real woman." No, I didn’t give birth, but that didn’t make me less of a mother. I’m not a man—I’m a real woman, too.