I have been in a relationship with a pastor for four years now. I was nineteen when we met. He was twenty-nine. The age difference never felt like the problem. The real problem was something we discovered right from the beginning.

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Early in the relationship, he insisted we take a genotype test. He told me he once ended a relationship because they were not genetically compatible, and he did not want to go through that pain again. Back then, I was not ignorant, I just did not care enough to know. It took a lot of persuasion before I finally agreed, and we went to the hospital.

When the result came in: I am AC. He is AS.

But, my pastor boyfriend, he has held tightly to some hope that we can still have healthy children. Meanwhile, AC plus AS is medically high risk. It is not advisable if you want to avoid bringing a child into the world with sickle cell disease. But he has spoken of faith, possibility, hope, even luck. I did not want to dismiss him, so I tried to meet him halfway. But as time passed, I started my studies in a health institution, and my knowledge grew. I learned how serious this is.

For four years, I have brought up the issue. Gently. The way they advise women to talk. Quiet voice. Calm tone. Patience. And I have also been firm about it. Yet his responses are mixed. One day he has hope and fear fighting inside him. The next day it is faith and force. Even the way he speaks shows he is hesitant.

To clear every doubt, I went for a second test at a completely different hospital. Same result. I am still AC.

There is one conversation I cannot forget. He told me a story about a well known preacher who faced the same genotype mismatch with his wife. They relied on faith and prayed for a miracle. Their two children were both born with sickle cell disease. The marriage ended in divorce. While he narrated it, I could hear the worry in his voice. He even said that as a minister, it would crush him to watch his child suffer like that.

Yet, in the same breath, he holds on to hope. He talks about faith. He mentions adoption. Donor insemination. He says there will always be a way for me to become a mother to his children. Sometimes I feel he is so attached to me that he cannot accept the simple scientific truth standing between us.

But my worries go deeper than our mismatch.

I am my mother’s only surviving child. She suffered stillbirths and miscarriages for years. When I finally sat down with her to understand everything, her story pointed clearly to Rhesus factor issues. Her body kept treating those pregnancies like a threat. She told me that when she was pregnant with me, she was undergoing tests to find the cause, but she went into labour on the day she was supposed to receive the results. She never found out.

I also had an elder brother. He was never well. His head, his legs, his throat, his kidneys. It was always something. He would be active one day and fighting for his life the next. My mother believes his struggles were because he was born premature. But what if it was something else. What if he had sickle cell. We lost him when he was nineteen. That is how I became an only child.

 

All of this hangs over me like a shadow. I do not want my future to follow my mother’s pattern. I do not want loss, fear, or grief to define my journey into motherhood. I do not want to bring a child into the world knowing the risks.

 

I tried to explain all this to my mother. I laid out the facts. The possible outcomes. The story of her own past. She listened, nodded, and agreed. But once she speaks to my boyfriend, everything changes. She insists I stay with him. She calls him a blessing. She says God sent him to us. She says we will never find someone like him again. They have joined forces, and I feel like I am fighting both of them.

And now there is a new fear. Because he is a pastor, he frames my doubts as spiritual attacks. He says spirits from my family line are working against my marriage. He says my worry is demonic. He tells this to my mother, and she repeats it to me. I know he is not a bad person, but the pressure feels heavy.

I wanted us to part ways quietly and peacefully for this simple, practical reason. But it is not easy. I feel I am losing my voice and my choice.

My mind still races. In a world where DNA tests are common, how would we explain donor conception. What if we do have a child and the child suffers. What if he breaks under the weight and seeks a family with someone who can give him a healthy biological child. We once sat down to talk about everything, but I could not say what was in my heart. I could not tell him I want out because of our genotype.

 

I am still young. I do not want to make a lifelong mistake.

 

This is why I am writing. I am seeking advice from people who understand. From health workers. From people who have walked this path. From those who have watched others suffer because of genotype issues. How do you accept the truth and move on. How do you gather enough strength to choose yourself.

Is There A Perfect One Out There For Everyone?

When I first understood my genotype, I insisted we end things. He was the one who held on. Now four years have passed, and I am still in the middle, watching my life stall.

I feel stuck. I feel afraid. And more than anything, I feel ready to move on. I just need the strength to follow through.

—Erica

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