No congratulations, no how you feeling, just questions, awkward mind your own business questions that should never be asked.
That is how those who knew my now ex spouse (a trans man) and I were expecting our first child together back in 2012.
It was like many conception stories one which was a journey, 2 years at the fertility clinic, where yet more ignorant questions were asked, where tests were carried out, bloods drawn, counselling given, my BMI was shamed, his lack of penis and sperm analysed and my disability status interrogated. This surely should not be so exhausting, so degrading, so frustrating before we even begin attempting to conceive?
Fast forward and I made my mind up to leave the marriage as raising a prospective child in a home with domestic violence was not a choice it was a decision.
I was now 6 months pregnant without the aid of said clinic, and how you wonder? My then secondary partner offered to provide sperm and home insemination occurred.
I, despite my higher than they wanted BMI, despite having PCOS, despite being disabled was pregnant with a healthy foetus growing inside me.
I should have been excited, I should have been happy, instead I was anxious, I was frightened, I was exhausted of being questioned.
Solo parenting was not the journey I had planned, but the route I was now taking.
Fast forward to now, and that small being is 8 and thriving, an infectiously kind personality, generous with her fascination and love of her world and her chosen family. She gained a brother last summer whom is her world.