Page 4 of The Betrothal

“That’s the spirit,” Sophie continued. She was an expert in delivering unwanted opinions. “Two kids. Five years if you manage them one after the other. Wed in a month, nine months for baby one, nine for baby two, four years maternity.”

“That’s over five years,” I groaned. I knew that was the best timeline. The maths wasn’t hard.

“Five years, seven months then. After which you can get back to what you want to do with your life. He’s richer than God, and with your inheritance, you can afford to follow whatever dreams you choose to have.”

“You imply that when he unlocks my inheritance he will leave it to me to use as I see fit, not absorb it into his estate?”

Sophie grumbled in response, and I didn’t push her. I was taking a full dose of brutal reality as it was.

“I don’t think I can do it, Soph.”

Sympathy shone in her eyes. She was a pragmatist, but she wasn’t cruel.

I fidgeted with my glass, running my fingers through the cool droplets on the surface.

“I don’t have a choice.”

Sophie shook her head sadly. “Iz, as soon as you’re married, he’s not only your guardian, but he has access…” She looked up and down my body. “It’s his right, as your husband.”

My stomach lurched, the vodka churning, threatening to come back up.

“I’m not being cruel. Two babies, that’s the expectation. The sooner you deliver, the sooner you can withdraw, or try to. His leverage weakens if you’ve met the reproductive quota, Iz.”

I nodded more. Of course I knew, I studied this. I knew the protocols and policies better than anyone else.

Two babies. That was the expectation. Legally he controlled everything, movement, finances, freedoms, my body.

Refusal to meet the reproductive quota was seen as a malfunction. To start with, it was called a transition or adjustment disorder, nerves, they said, anxiety. Before long, the perspective shifted, terminology moving from delay or anxiety to Autonomy Adjustment Syndrome or Fertility Avoidance Response.

These weren’t concepts; they were medically diagnosed states for women who didn’t immediately fall pregnant. The gentler categories were for women who conceded bodily autonomy to their husbands, but those who resisted that, well, they were classified as non-adaptive, and then autonomy was moved from limited to culled. Counselling became cognitive reframing sessions, compliance-focused, many being church-led forms of conversion therapy built on shame and hatred.

Take it far enough and things got even worse. The husband’s authority moved to carer-led oversight. Nurses moved into the home to control every movement, challenge every thought. Doctors’ appointments were scheduled several times a week, and fertility drugs were administered to enhance their desire for motherhood, even sedatives to diminish mental resistance to the concept.

All in the name of ‘grounding’ the female population.

Sophie knew this, but she wouldn’t name it. She offered the alternative, the only one, really. Two babies.

“There’s something wrong with me, Soph.”

“Is there hell as like!”

“I never wanted this. Marriage has always been a non-concept to me. When the marriage was arranged, I didn’t question it. It’s the done thing. But as time has moved on, I just don’t want it. I definitely don’t need it. I am happy.”

“I know, Iz.” Sophie topped up my glass again as I gulped at the vodka. I would have a splitting headache by the time the movers arrived tomorrow, but it would distract me for a little while.

“But children. I always knew I didn’t want them. I love my nieces and nephews. I don’t hate children, Soph.”

“Izzy, of course you don’t hate children. I’ve seen you with kids. But you don’t have to hate them to not want them.”

“I don’t,” I mumbled. “I don’t.”

“There aren’t any alternatives, Iz. No-one would believe you were interested in women. With the engagement lasting so long, you’d have come out ages ago.”

Sophie and her wife had been married for over a decade. To meet the reproductive quota, they couldn’t naturally conceive within their marriage without intervention of the male kind. Therefore, beautiful, happy couples such as hers were permitted to adopt, and adopt she did.

At thirty-three, she had a teenage daughter and son, both pushing eighteen. She had completed her mandated maternity period of four years from registration, when she adopted them in her mid-twenties, and was now working almost full time in education.

I knew she was implying that I didn’t have to have children, but given that I could – female fertility was tested annually at a minimum for those without children – adoption in my marriage wouldn’t be an option.