“I don’t have children.”

At the reception after my father’s funeral a few years ago, I was sitting with dad’s neighbors. Such nice people. We were exchanging the usual pleasantries—nice service, he was a good man, etc.

Then they asked about my children. The Mrs. pointed to my niece. “Is that your daughter?”

I wish.

“No, she’s my brother’s daughter,” I said.

“Where are your children?”

“I don’t have any children.”

Thud.

They didn’t know what to say after that. I don’t remember what I said. Did I talk about my work, boast about my niece and nephew, or discuss the music at the funeral? I excused myself soon after and threaded through the crowd to the company of cousins who already knew I was widowed and childless.

The next day, after I sobbed through the process of settling Dad’s ashes into place next to my mother’s at the mausoleum, the adults gathered their kids and drove away. They were too busy wrangling the little ones to realize I had no one to be with.

The question and the conversation-exploding answer of “I don’t have kids” happens all the time, especially among women. Generally men chat more about work and sports, but not always. They ask, too. It’s understandable. When your life revolves around raising children, and most of the people you know are also parents, kids are the one thing everyone has in common.

Folks skip right past “Do you have children?” to “How many children do you have? “How old are your children?” “Do your children go to X school?” or “Do your adult children live nearby?”

If I have a choice, I usually don’t mention my childless situation. Why set off that bomb if you don’t have to?  

The question comes most often during those years when you’re of an age when you would be raising children if you had them, but it still comes up in later years. Substitute “grandchildren.” You can’t have grandchildren if you never had children.  

Saying you never had children confuses people. It leads conversations to dead ends. It leads to one of you suddenly needing to get another drink, use the restroom, or go talk to someone on the other side of the room.

People respond in funny ways. Oh, I didn’t realize. Oh, there’s still time. Lucky you. I’ll give you mine. I just assumed . . . They rarely ask why—unless they are also without children. Those who are childless by choice may answer, “I never wanted any either,” leaving you to protest, “I wanted them, but . . .” Or maybe you just smile.

It depends on where you are, of course. In a gathering of writers, “What do you write?” is the big question. Classic car collectors will ask, “Are you driving that blue Chevy over there?” Gardeners may ask, “How are your tomatoes doing?”

But in the general public, especially among families, you’re going to get the kid question.

Mother’s Day is coming, a day when our lack of children may make us want to stay in bed with pillows over our heads. The advertisements have already begun: gifts for “Mom,” brunch for “Mom,” special Mother’s Day concerts. Schoolchildren are making craft projects to honor their moms.

For those of us without children, it’s just another Sunday, but one where we’re even more likely to hear those questions. How many kids do you have? How many grandkids?  Are they taking you out today? Here’s a carnation, MOM.

Until you’re forced to say, “I don’t have any children. I’m not a mom.”

Then you get the look: slacker, freak, cold-hearted selfish person. No flower for you.

Let’s talk about this. Where and how do you face questions about offspring? What happens when you say, “I don’t have children”? Why does it feel like a confession when we haven’t done anything wrong?

I look forward to your comments.