The Single Cynic: We’ve got the stereotypical brooding man, but what about the ones who are just broody?

A recent Instagram post by a female friend who had welcomed a newborn baby with her partner got me reflecting on my age and dwindling prospect of ever having children. My father walked out on my mum and sister when I was three, and my parents later divorced, so I’ve always, to some extent, been conscious of how that influences my feelings on this matter.

Popular psychology suggests that children of divorce can have particularly strong urges to have their own families in order to compensate for their broken childhoods and create their own ‘perfect family’. There have been other consequences, which are probably subjects for other columns.

I was in my later years of primary school when I first had a distinct sense of feeling ‘broody’. An adult cousin who had come to collect her daughter from school had brought her baby son along. A female friend who I found attractive asked if she could hold him, which she did.

It’s difficult to describe the sensation it evoked. A momentary triggering of an emotional ache, but one that I can clearly recall to this day, such was its impact.

Neither of my siblings have kids, and my mum never hid her hopes for grandchildren. I can’t comprehend how she feels. One day she said to myself and my younger brother – probably only half-jokingly – “Why can’t either of you just go and get a woman pregnant?”

Most of her friends have grandkids, as do many relatives. I sometimes resent their lengthy conversations about the subject. While unlikely intentional, it still seems insensitive at times because they know our situation.

My heart quietly breaks on these occasions for my own feeling of uselessness, as well as how it must make my mum feel. I recently overheard her tell her brother (my uncle) that she’d given up any hope at this stage.

All but one of my male friends and colleagues have children. Some people I meet for the first time seem surprised that I don’t. It’s difficult to know what to say in these situations, but usually one of us will change the subject.

In my early 20s, a moment involving my first – hopelessly unrequited – love, stands out in my mind.

After we’d both graduated from university, she was staying overnight at a Heathrow airport hotel before an early morning flight to the Middle East. As we approached our table for dinner, several kids, probably around six or seven years old, whose parents were seated nearby, were chasing each other around the dining area.

When she stopped to say hello to them and they responded in kind and smiled, the way her face lit up stayed imprinted on my memory. It was, again, an otherwise unremarkable passing moment, but it provoked a visceral twinge somewhere in my brain-gut-heart axis. An instantaneous daydream, like a portal to another life you could be living opening and closing in a flash.

The subject of men being broody is perhaps less of a taboo than it may have been in the past. These days, we can all choose whether to indicate on dating apps if we want children or not.

If I have such a thing as a male biological clock, there was a distinct sense of it ticking a bit louder during my 30s. Eight women I met during this decade made an impression because of how smart, warm, interesting and attractive they were. Four also had divorced parents, so perhaps that unconsciously influenced my being drawn to them.

On a dinner date in north London, one of the eight, a divorced 35-year-old mother of two young daughters, spoke a lot about her ex-husband. I got a strong sense she was more amused by me rather than attracted to me from the way she talked about her ex who, unlike me, was an alpha, hedge fund partner type. There was no second date.

While in my late 30s, I visited my best friend from my student days. He and his wife have two young sons. I recall feeling the familiar broody pang again as he played with them on the floor of their lounge. This time it was deeper, tinged with a cocktail of hope, hopelessness and something not unlike grief for what might have been – a parallel life simultaneously within but also out of reach.

Whenever the subject comes up between us, I usually say that these days that I’d need to win the lottery to afford to have kids, notwithstanding the glaring lack of anyone to have them with. With a knowing laugh, he recently told me he now has two jobs, in addition to his wife working, in order to afford their fortunate life.

Are you putting yourself out there on dating apps and feel like you’re getting nothing back? Check out our masterclass with cyberpsychologist Dr Nicola Fox Hamilton to better understand how it all works.