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Of course somebody somewhere has to father children once in awhile, for the sake of the biological imperative. I just imagined it would be somebody else, somewhere very far away. But now, as I reach the end of my 20s – as I conclude the overture and approach the main event – whether or not I plan to have children has become a matter of apparently universal concern.

“When are you going to have your first one?” It was about a month into my marriage that this question was first posed to me, in all its staggering presumptuousness, by a well-meaning family friend – though naturally variations on the theme had been directed my way since the night of the wedding. I’m asked how many I expect to end up with. I’m asked which of us intends to stop working (so progressive). I’m asked what’s taking so long. I’m asked, rather ominously, how old my wife is. (And my wife, needless to say, is asked all this and more, more often than I am.) Probably some of this is mere conversation-making – small talk, benign and meaningless. Other times I feel there’s far too much riding on the answer.

You can see it in their faces, when you tell people you don’t want children: confusion, disappointment. Or worse: pity. And the follow-up questions invariably prove more maddening still, as anyone who’s had to break the news to a friend or parent will tell you. It isn’t enough that you’d simply prefer not to have kids. You have to demonstrate you’ve reasoned through it, that you’ve reflected, discussed, argued. Not that it really matters if you have. The desire to have kids is taken so much for granted that the absence of that desire is thought to be a deficiency. It’s a stacked deck, a rigged jury: no defence you can mount on behalf of childlessness will satisfy someone invested in you having one.