\nby Roddy Doyle
\nfrom the October 19, 2020 issue of\u00a0The New Yorker<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n
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Once, years ago, when the children were children, someone had asked Alan if he had any — children. And he\u2019d said no.<\/span><\/p>\n He hadn\u2019t expected to say it; it hadn\u2019t been part of a plan. It wasn\u2019t a woman he was talking to. It wasn\u2019t the possibility of sex that had pushed him to say it. He remembered it as a choice, a junction, yes or no. And — just the once — he\u2019d gone for no, and for the rest of the evening he\u2019d been a man with no children.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n It had been dreadful, really, having to constantly remind himself that he had no kids. Because that was what he had been, for more than two decades\u2014the man with kids. From the second he woke to the point in the night when he stopped knowing that his eyes were closing, he\u2019d been that man. And the evening he\u2019d denied it he\u2019d still been that man, out for the night with no witnesses, but still up past his neck in four childhoods.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n I’ve read some more of the story, and let me just say that this doesn’t look like a cheery story! Not only does the man when he ages seem to have no relationship with his children but he also considers himself a bachelor and his wife a spinster. Who knows — maybe it will end up being a bit more affirming of this man’s relationships than it starts.<\/p>\n I look forward to seeing your thoughts!<\/p>\n [\/fusion_text][fusion_builder_row_inner][fusion_builder_column_inner type=”1_2″ layout=”1_2″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”0″ border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding_top=”” padding_right=”” padding_bottom=”” padding_left=”” margin_top=”” margin_bottom=”” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility” center_content=”no” last=”no” min_height=”” hover_type=”none” link=”” border_position=”all”][fusion_text columns=”” column_min_width=”” column_spacing=”” rule_style=”default” rule_size=”” rule_color=”” hide_on_mobile=”small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_direction=”left” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_offset=””]<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mookseandgripes.com\/reviews\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/October-19-2020.jpg?resize=388%2C530&ssl=1\")
[fusion_dropcap boxed=”no” boxed_radius=”” class=”” id=”” color=”#003366″ text_color=””]R[\/fusion_dropcap]oddy Doyle returns to\u00a0The New Yorker<\/em> fiction section with a story that does not appear to be based on any current event, unlike “Ash”<\/a> in 2010 and “The Curfew”<\/a> in 2019. Here is how “Life Without Children” begins:<\/p>\n\n