The Donor
By Anonymous Dilworth Old Boy
“I have no idea whether any of my biological offspring will ever reach out to me, or even know I exist, but I would certainly welcome it. More than anything, I hope they are healthy and happy. I think about them sometimes—not in an intrusive way, but as quiet hopes that they are loved, safe, thriving in good homes.”
I grew up in Auckland, went to Dilworth in the ’80s and ’90s. Life was about sports, mates, and the usual teenage antics.
After school, I followed the typical path: university, part-time jobs to make ends meet, then off for the OE. I backpacked across Europe and met my future wife, another Kiwi, in Rome.
Eventually, we returned home, got engaged, married, bought a house, and had kids. Life was good, if a bit clichéd.
Following the birth of our youngest, close friends were struggling to conceive. Tests revealed he had a low sperm count. They considered IVF and asked if I’d be willing to be a donor. After discussions, my wife and I agreed—it felt right to help them become parents. As fate would have it, they conceived naturally before needing our help. But the idea lingered: maybe other couples needed assistance.
With my wife’s support, I contacted a fertility clinic. Tests showed I was a suitable donor. We underwent counselling, and I was accepted into the donor program. My wife had conditions: donations would be for married couples only—not single women or lesbian couples.
Over six months, I donated about thirty times. After a waiting period and additional testing, I was informed that my donations had been allocated to five couples. My wife and I were thrilled to have helped.
A year later, the clinic notified me of the birth of a baby girl. More children followed, totaling ten across the five couples.
My wife and I have told our kids about their ten biological half-siblings. Now and again, they ask questions about them and whether they will ever meet. Impossible to answer that one. I made them promise to be nice if anyone came asking after we are dead.
New Zealand law mandates that donors be open to sharing their identity with donor-conceived children once they turn 18. However, donors receive minimal information—only the year of birth and gender of each child.
I accepted this when I signed up. But I’ve since learned that about 80% of heterosexual couples who use sperm donors never tell their kids the truth about their origins. With the rise of home DNA testing sites like AncestryDNA, many parents are being caught out, and the revelations are often devastating for the children.
This knowledge weighs heavily on me. I fear I’ve inadvertently enabled couples to withhold fundamental truths from their children—truths that are not mine to tell, but that I feel the kids have a right to know. In hindsight, I wonder if I should have asked more questions, set clearer boundaries, or even refused to participate in a system that, despite its good intentions, could complicate the lives of those it creates. The thought that my donations might have been used in ways that could hurt the children—emotionally, psychologically, or socially—eats away at me. I wonder if these children will feel betrayed one day, if they’ll ever discover the truth, and if that revelation will feel like a wound they’ve carried for years without knowing its origin.
It’s a strange, gnawing guilt—a sense of complicity in something that wasn’t entirely mine to begin with, yet I still carry a part of it. I signed up believing I was helping others, giving a gift, and doing something noble. But now, I’m confronted with the unintended consequences of that decision. I never wanted to contribute to a situation where lies, half-truths, or omissions could hurt anyone—least of all children who, at the end of the day, deserve to know their story, the full, unabridged version.
All I can do now is hope that, over time, the truth is revealed in a gentle and kind way, sparing these kids from any unnecessary pain. I really wish for them to have happy, fulfilling lives, with the support and honesty they deserve. And I hope that, when they eventually learn the truth, they can understand my intention wasn’t to create confusion or secrecy, but simply to help. Even if I never meet them, I will always hope they find peace with who they are and where they come from.