“Why is this relationship different?” I asked Ben, and then worried that I was presuming a bit much. “Or is it different?”
I will never forget the way Ben looked at me, his pale eyes wide and almost glassy. He bit his bottom lip, one of his sexier habits, before he said, “That’s actually not a difficult question at all. I just love you more. That’s it. And I’m not saying that because she’s in the past and you’re in the present. I just do . In absolute terms. I mean, I loved her. I did. But I love you more. And it’s really not even close.”
It was the best thing anyone had ever said to me, and it was the best for one reason: I felt exactly the same way. The person who loved me like this was the person I loved back which can feel like an absolute miracle. It is an absolute miracle.
So it came as no surprise when Ben proposed a few weeks later. And then, seven months later, on the anniversary of our first date, we eloped, tying the knot on an idyllic white crescent beach in St. John. It was not a popular move with our families, but we wanted the day to be only about us. Right after we exchanged our vows, I remember looking out across the sea and thinking that it was just the two of us, our lifetime together stretching endlessly ahead. Nothing would ever change, except the addition of wrinkles and gray hair and sweet, satisfying memories.
Of course the subject of children surfaced often during our newlywed days, but only when responding to rude inquiries regarding our plans to procreate from everyone and anyone: Ben’s family, my family, friends, random mothers in the park, even our dry cleaner.
“We’re not going to have children,” one of us would matter-of-factly reply, and then we would tolerate the inevitable chatter that followed about how much children enrich your lives.
Once, at a book party, an editor came right out and told me that if I didn’t have kids at some point, then my life “would be devoid of meaning.” Now that’s a pretty extreme statement. I think I said something like, “Well, gee, I might as well off myself now then, huh?” She pretended not to hear me and kept going on about her children.
Another common response was the sympathetic nod from people who believed that we were actually concealing a painful truth: our inability to conceive. Like the time a friend of Ben’s from college slipped me a business card with her fertility clinic information scrawled on the back. I handed it to Ben who promptly announced to his friend that he had had a vasectomy several months into our marriage. This wasn’t true I was on the pill but there was something about his statement that both shamed her and shut her up.
And the final recurrent motif was the whole, “Who is going to take care of you when you’re old?” query. Ben and I would say, “Each other.” They’d (unbelievably) respond, “But what about when one of you dies?” At which point, things would really become cheery. Occasionally I’d point out that nursing homes are filled with people whose children never visit. That children are no guarantee of anything. You could have a kid who becomes a poor, struggling artist. Or a kid who grows into a selfish, ne’er-do-well adult. Or a kid who has special needs that render him unable to care for himself, let alone his elderly parents. Bottom line, Ben and I agreed that worrying about your care is a stupid, selfish reason to procreate anyway. We preferred to work hard and save our money, rather than burden a future generation.
But over time, we learned to keep quiet on the subject. It was so much easier that way. We would simply exchange a knowing glance and then discuss it all later. We were annoyed by the narrow-minded assumption that children were a given, but at the same time, we enjoyed the underlying smugness that came from being part of a childfree union. Our relationship was about freedom and possibility and exploration. We were together because we wanted to be together. Not because we needed a partner in parenthood or because children were keeping us together, caging us with eighteen years of obligation.
Then, about two years into our marriage, something changed.
It was subtle at first, as changes in relationships typically are, so it is hard to pinpoint the genesis. But, looking back, I think it all began when Ben and I went on a ski trip with Annie and Ray, the couple who had set us up on our first date. I had known Annie since our bingeing college days, so I noticed right away that she was sticking with Perrier. At first she claimed to be on antibiotics for a sinus infection, but the whole antibiotic excuse had never slowed her in the past so I dragged the truth out of her. She was eight weeks pregnant.
“Was it planned?” I blurted out, thinking surely it had been an accident. Annie adored her career as a documentary filmmaker and had a million different causes on the side. She had never expressed an interest in having children, and I couldn’t fathom her making time for motherhood.
Annie and Ray clasped hands and nodded in unison.