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The Choice of Childlessness
When the image of your future self collides with the reality of now
Recently, a maintenance worker stopped by to fix my leaking kitchen sink and asked, as casually as if they were commenting on the weather, whether I had any kids. My Brooklyn one-bedroom, mind you, is not ideal for kids, let alone another human being or even a dog, but something must have made it feel reasonable to ask. While I’d assessed him as around my age—youngish—his question instantly made me feel not only old but ancient.
At 36, I am neither young (okay, not even “ish”) nor ancient (thank you very much). What I am is an adult. And the idea that someone my age might have children running around is far more reasonable than the fact that I don’t. Still, his question shattered me.
“No,” I told him quickly, laughing to demonstrate the absurdity of his very reasonable inquiry—only to be shattered once again, but worse, by his follow-up.
“Want them?” he asked, casually scanning my sink for who-knows-what as I stood paralyzed on the small square of tiles known as my kitchen, in the corner of the room that makes up the bulk of my apartment.
“Maybe?”
He turned around from the sink and looked me in the eyes for the first time. “You should really know the answer…
