Here’s a unique rewrite of that text:

I have a frozen embryo stored at a fertility clinic in St. Petersburg, Russia. She’s been there for six years now, and I know she’s a girl—I’ve even named her Talulah. She represents the child I may never have, a potential sibling to my daughters, Lola, who’s eight, and Liberty, who’s six. Yet, I find myself at a crossroads, completely unsure of what to do with her.

Part of me could easily ignore the situation—the clinic hasn’t contacted me about storage fees in years, and it would be simple to pretend she’s not there. I could try to retrieve her, but the ongoing war complicates that option. Sometimes I wonder what’s happening to her. Is she still safely frozen? Has anything gone wrong? Has she been affected by the chaos around her?

Talulah has become this almost mythical third child, a dream that I can’t afford to make real, even if I wanted to. My daughters know about her; she’s part of our family’s story. Liberty would love a baby sister, but Lola is more practical. “Don’t be silly!” she says, understanding that having Talulah would add too much strain on our lives.

The thing is, I know Talulah is a viable embryo. She was screened for chromosomal abnormalities back in 2016 through basic preimplantation genetic screening (PGS), which checks for conditions like Down syndrome and assesses the risk of miscarriage. She’s strong, but even knowing that doesn’t make the decision any easier. What do you do with a future that may never unfold?

Here’s a unique rewrite of that text:

I understand the concerns surrounding advanced embryo screening. Today’s technological breakthroughs have sparked fears that the wealthy might begin creating so-called “superbabies.” Take, for instance, the US-based reproductive tech startup, Orchid, which offers comprehensive embryo analysis. For around £2,000 per embryo—on top of IVF costs—it claims to identify predispositions to over 1,200 diseases, including Alzheimer’s, diabetes, coronary artery disease, and various cancers. Critics, however, have labeled this as “social engineering.”

In my situation, facing a low ovarian reserve, I had no choice but to undergo multiple, grueling rounds of IVF, as doctors urged it as a matter of urgency. But for many who don’t suffer from fertility issues, freezing and pre-screening embryos for potential health risks is increasingly becoming a standard practice. Some argue that if women are willing to endure far more for cosmetic procedures, why not go through IVF to ensure a healthier baby?

However, what’s often overlooked is the emotional weight of these decisions. My advice to those who might have to discard multiple viable embryos—especially if you're young and produce a large number of eggs—is to consider how difficult it is to leave a healthy embryo behind or, worse yet, to discard it entirely.

When I first looked at that paper filled with data, I didn’t imagine that years later I’d be haunted by the thought of Talulah, my frozen embryo, sitting in a clinic like an object, as if she were nothing more than a frozen apple pie. The emotional toll of these choices is not something easily discussed, but it’s a reality many face in the pursuit of parenthood.

Here’s a unique rewrite of that text:

When it comes to my non-frozen family, Lola was the first to arrive—she was the strongest embryo I had. She was conceived at a fertility clinic in Spain, where IVF was more affordable than in the UK at the time. Spanish law, however, only allowed embryos to be frozen for a year, forcing me into a frantic search across Europe to find a clinic that would store the remaining embryos. That’s how they ended up in Russia.

Two years after Lola’s birth, I had a choice: implant Liberty or Talulah. I can’t fully remember the moment, but I know I chose Liberty, and now I can’t imagine life without her. The thought of not having her, of not knowing her as I do, is heartbreaking. I often wonder, though, what life would have been like if I’d chosen Talulah instead. Would she have been a more difficult child? Did I dodge a bullet by choosing Liberty? These are the kinds of questions that linger in the back of my mind.

Now I’m faced with decisions I never thought I’d have to make. Should I put Talulah up for adoption or offer her as a gift to an infertile couple? Or should I try to let go and forget she exists? Rationally, I know Talulah doesn’t have feelings—she’s just an early-stage embryo—but she feels real to us. If I chose to carry her, I’d have to go through hormone treatments and force a menstrual cycle to prepare my body. But age wouldn’t be a factor, as I already have a healthy, high-quality embryo. Alternatively, I could even use a surrogate to bring her into the world, sparing myself the physical strain of another pregnancy.

These are the difficult thoughts no one prepares you for when you undergo embryo testing. For me, testing was a logical choice—I was in my forties, and the risk of chromosomal abnormalities rises sharply with age. But now, as I reflect on the journey, I realize the emotional weight of these decisions is far heavier than I ever imagined.

Here’s a unique rewrite of that text:

It wasn’t that gender mattered to me—it was purely by chance that I discovered Liberty and Talulah were both female embryos. When I arranged to have the rest of my embryos, eggs, and sperm shipped to Russia, I glanced at the paperwork. That’s when I learned that Embryo No. 1 (Liberty) was a girl, as was Embryo No. 2 (Talulah). I figured I’d make the practical choice: Liberty could easily share a bunk bed with Lola in my two-bedroom flat, so I went ahead and had her.

But the rise of genetic testing, like what’s offered by Orchid, pushes the selection process to a whole new level. It’s no longer just a matter of preference—it’s become a pursuit of perfection. Gone are the days when the debate was about being "too posh to push"; now, some parents are simply too wealthy to settle for anything less than flawless. Naturally, every parent wants a healthy child, but there’s an emotional complexity that comes with knowing you have more lives waiting in the wings. For some, that number could even reach 17.

It’s a profound experience, and one that many find hard to fully grasp.