My good friend Elizabeth and her husband have been living in a state of childless bliss for over 30 years; she was never the most maternal person and I always assumed they were childless by choice, but I certainly never asked: it’s none of my business.
It was at lunch recently that Elizabeth shared with me that her mother-in-law, whom she refers to as “The Viper,” was giving her hell for not producing an heir to carry on the family name. “I’m 55 years old,” said Elizabeth, “what does she want me to do?”
I nodded sympathetically. “I think that ship has sailed,” I said.
Elizabeth sighed. “For 30 years people have been asking us why we don’t have kids and I’m sick of it.” She took a bite of her salad. “They look at me like I’ve done something wrong,” she said bitterly. “It’s no one’s business that Pedro and I couldn’t have kids.” She stopped suddenly as though surprised that she had finally shared. Then she sighed. “What a rude, intrusive, personal question,” she said.
“I know how you feel,” I said, and I meant it. Now that marriage equality is the Law of the Land , for the better part of this year I have been explaining to nosy neighbors, well-meaning relatives, curious friends and , on occasion, total strangers that my partner and I have no plans to get married.
I resent being asked the question in the first place, , and I wish I had the balls to just say, “Why would you ask such a question?” or “It’s none of your business” or even “What’s it to you?” but since I am preternaturally polite I usually give a careless laugh and say something like, “We have no plans right now,” and change the subject.
But it never ends there. “Why not?” said my cousin. “Are you guys OK?”
“You’ve been together 23 years,” said our neighbor, “what are you waiting for?”
“You’re not getting any younger,” pointed out my friend Carlos.
“Who is?” I asked sharply. He ignored me.
“You got to think ahead,” he said. “I married Kenny because he’s the only one I would trust to decide whether or not it’s time to pull the plug,” he said, effectively ending the conversation.
“How romantic,” I thought bleakly. “Why not tell me about the tax benefits?” That’s when Carlos began to explain the tax benefits.
Things came to a head when Carmichael, our Jamaican house painter, asked me the question I had, by now, come to dread. I was drinking a Diet Coke and he was painting the baseboards when my partner walked through the room. Carmichael looked at my partner, looked at me and said, “When are you going to make an honest man out of him?” This so startled me that I managed to snort Diet Coke out of my nose, across the room and onto his freshly painted baseboard.
Carmichael scowled and reached for his rag. “All men have cold feet before they get married,” he said. “ Just bite the bullet and do it.”
Now, back in the present, I said to Elizabeth, “So I know how you feel: When people ask me why we’re not married, I feel the same way you feel when people ask why you and Pedro have no kids. “
“So why aren’t you married?” asked Elizabeth unexpectedly, and I sighed.
“I’m not completely sure,” I said honestly. “Maybe it’s because we never thought it would be possible. Maybe it’s because we have a good thing going and if it’s not broken, why fix it? Maybe it’s because I’m not sure I see the point. Maybe it’s because…….” I kind of trailed off.
Elizabeth nodded. “I understand,” she said .
We were silent for a moment but then I said, “But we’re talking about it. It will probably happen eventually.”
Elizabeth smiled broadly. “That’s great!” she said. “Do you think you’ll adopt kids?”