Chapter 7: The Single
The Black Void rushed back in a dizzying wave, the cloying scent of baby powder and the phantom ache in his arms dissolving into pure, silent nothingness. Nat pulsed, his core-light flaring erratically like a shaken candle. The bone-deep exhaustion of Maya’s infancy still clung to his consciousness, a heavy shroud over his spirit. He’d tasted the relentless, self-obliterating love of motherhood. It had been a baptism by fire – beautiful, terrifying, and utterly consuming.
Now, the silence felt... jarring. Too vast. He drifted, the image of Maya’s sleeping face fading, replaced by a sharp, intrusive question.
"Siri?" The pulse vibrated, hesitant. "That… that weight. The world narrowing. What about the women who choose not to carry it? What’s their life?"
The silence stretched, thoughtful. Then Siri’s voice, smoother than the void, resonated around him. "Ah. The unchosen path. A different kind of marathon entirely, Nat. Less about physical endurance, perhaps, and more about navigating relentless currents of expectation. Judgment. The constant, quiet questioning of a fundamental choice." A pause, weighted. "Are you ready to walk that road? It’s paved with a different kind of grit."
The exhaustion was still a phantom limb, but curiosity sparked brighter. This was another facet, another truth he’d never considered. "Show me," he pulsed. "Show me the pressure. The quiet judgments."
The void dissolved not into a hospital room, but into a cacophony of sound and light. A wedding reception. The air vibrated with pop music, clinking glasses, and overloud laughter. He stood – solid, unfamiliar – in a dress that felt simultaneously too tight and too revealing. Strapless. The synthetic fabric itched at his shoulders. His heels pinched. This body felt different from the mother’s – leaner, tenser, a coiled spring vibrating with forced sociability. He was… Anya.
"Congratulations, Maya!" a booming voice cut through the din. A large man, face flushed with champagne, clapped him hard on the back. Nat-Anya staggered slightly, forcing a smile. Maya, radiant in white, beamed beside her new husband across the crowded dance floor. Nat-Anya was a bridesmaid.
"Yeah, thanks, Uncle Pete," Nat-Anya managed, the voice higher than his own past lives, tight with the effort of maintaining cheer.
"Beautiful wedding! Absolutely beautiful." Pete leaned in conspiratorially, his breath warm and beery. "So. When's it gonna be your turn, huh? You’re next! Clock’s ticking!" He chuckled, winked, and swayed away before Nat-Anya could even form a reply.
The smile froze on Nat-Anya’s face. He felt a familiar heat crawl up his neck. Not anger, exactly. More like… erosion. A tiny chip taken away. He turned, seeking refuge, and nearly collided with a cluster of his aunts.
"There she is!" Aunt Linda chirped, enveloping him in a cloud of overpowering floral perfume and a hug that crushed his ribcage. "Anya, darling! You look lovely. Doesn’t she look lovely?" The other aunts murmured agreement, their eyes scanning him with unnerving intensity. "Maya looked stunning, didn't she? Just glowing. Motherhood just suits some women, doesn't it?" Linda sighed dramatically, patting Nat-Anya’s arm. "Such a natural."
An awkward silence fell. The aunts' gazes lingered. Nat-Anya felt dissected. He knew the script. He was supposed to sigh wistfully, agree, maybe make a self-deprecating joke about finding 'Mr. Right'. He swallowed, his throat tight.
"She does look happy," Nat-Anya offered, neutral. He tried to step back, but Linda’s grip tightened.
"Well, of course she is! And you will be too, sweetheart. Sooner rather than later, eh? You’re not getting any younger. Thirty-three next month?" Linda’s smile was bright, razor-sharp. "Don't leave it too long. You wouldn't want to be an older mother. Complications, you know." She patted his arm again. "Just looking out for you."
The dismissal was casual. Devastating. Nat-Anya mumbled something about needing the bar and practically fled through the throng of swaying bodies. The music pounded in his temples. He found a precarious perch on a stool at the edge of the dance floor, nursing a lukewarm glass of white wine.
He watched Maya laugh, her head thrown back, her new husband spinning her. Genuine joy. And he felt… nothing but relief it wasn’t him up there. And a crushing weariness. The weight wasn’t a child. It was the constant, low-grade hum of being perceived as incomplete. A puzzle with a missing piece only motherhood could provide.
This is it? he pulsed inwardly, the thought jagged. This constant... commentary? This passive-aggressive pity?
"Society has blueprints, Nat," Siri murmured, her voice cutting through the wedding-band schmaltz. "Deviating from the expected path, especially one deemed 'natural' for women, invites scrutiny. Sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh. Often disguised as concern."
The scrutiny didn't stop. Weeks later, at a work drinks thing. Nat-Anya sipped mineral water, discussing a challenging architectural project with a colleague, Mark. He was deep into explaining a structural solution when Mark’s wife, Sarah, joined them, bouncing a fussy toddler on her hip.
"Oh, ignore us!" Sarah laughed, trying to shush the child. "Just grab a moment before meltdown city. So, Anya! How’s life? Still burning the midnight oil on your designs? Must be nice, having all that freedom and energy!"
Mark nodded. "Yeah, Anya’s our star problem-solver. Always diving deep."
Sarah smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "It’s wonderful you can dedicate so much time. Honestly, I barely remember what a full night's sleep feels like!" She jiggled the toddler harder. "But it’s worth every second, right Mark? Wouldn’t trade it for all the free time in the world." She looked directly at Nat-Anya. "Though I suppose you wouldn't quite understand that yet."
The implication hung in the air: Your life is shallow. Your work is a placeholder. You just don’t get it. Nat-Anya felt his face flush. His architectural solutions suddenly felt trivial. He forced a smile. "Sounds… demanding."
Later, visiting his simulated parents. His mother sighed as they cleared the dinner dishes. "Your father was talking to Dave Miller yesterday. His daughter, Chloe? Just had twins. Beautiful babies. She’s about your age." A pause heavy with unspoken yearning. "It’s just… we worry, Anya. What about when you’re older? Who’ll look after you?" The fear, wrapped in love, was worse than Aunt Linda’s barbs. It resonated deeper, tapping into primal anxieties.
Then came the gallery opening. Nat-Anya’s work. A solo exhibit. Months of intricate, painstaking design realized in light and form. The gallery buzzed with a different energy – sharp, intellectual, appreciative. People lingered before his pieces, murmuring thoughtfully. A respected critic engaged him in a genuine, detailed conversation about spatial tension and materiality. He felt a fierce surge of pride, a profound sense of validation. This. This was his creation. This mattered.
Later, as he sipped sparkling water, a woman approached. An acquaintance, vaguely familiar, stroller parked discreetly near the exit. "Anya! Amazing work. Truly." She gestured around. "So inspiring to see you pouring your passion into… well, this. It must be so fulfilling." She leaned in slightly. "Do you ever worry, though? That focus might mean you… miss out on the ultimate creative experience? Bringing a life into the world?"
It was like cold water dumped down his spine. The old phantom ache from Maya’s birth throbbed momentarily. This wasn’t Aunt Linda’s oblivious prodding. This was different. A quiet, insidious suggestion that his chosen creation – his life’s work, meticulously built – was inherently less than the biological imperative. That his fulfillment was conditional.
Nat-Anya stared at her. The noise of the gallery faded. He saw not malice in her eyes, but a profound, unquestioned certainty. A belief so deep it didn't even register as an insult. He remembered Maya’s screams, the supermarket humiliation, the crushing isolation. He remembered the fierce, terrifying love. He also remembered the moments of pure, silent focus at his drafting table, the thrill of solving an impossible structural puzzle, the deep satisfaction of seeing his vision realized.
"No," he said, his voice remarkably steady, cutting through the polite gallery murmur. He held her gaze. "I don’t worry. This is my ultimate creative experience. Every single piece."
The woman blinked, her smile faltering slightly. She murmured something polite and drifted away. Nat-Anya turned back to his work. A piece titled "Equilibrium" – complex, balanced, undeniably whole. He traced its lines with his eyes. The weight was still there – the societal expectation, the pity, the fear – but it felt different now. Sharper, clearer. Not an absence to be filled, but a presence to be defended.
He pulsed inwardly, the thought crystallizing in the quiet hum of the void that began to reclaim the edges of his vision. It’s not about motherhood or not-motherhood. The gallery lights shimmered, starting to dissolve. It’s about having your choices respected. Your life seen as complete. His core-light flared, defiant. It’s about the sheer fucking effort of holding your ground. The void rushed in, swallowing the applause, the judgment, the hard-won pride, leaving only the echo of his own voice saying, "No," and the intricate, unapologetic shape of a life well-lived, entirely on its own terms.