Content warning: as with the last article, if you’re currently struggling with your mental health, consider skipping this, especially if you’re a parent. Contains emotionally heavy content and some foul language.

Act one: 2026, a reader’s home

“I don’t buy it.”

“Hm?” He looks up from his laptop in the cozy living room to see that his reading partner has done the same, this site’s last article on both their screens.

His partner gives him a skeptical look. “This guy is supposedly concerned about AI killing everyone? Causing human extinction? He thinks there’s a double-digit chance of it happening before he hits retirement age, and an even higher chance of some non-extinction-level AI disaster?”

“Yeah, that’s what he wrote.”

“Then why’d he go and have a kid?”

He closed his laptop, processing the objection. “You think he shouldn’t have?”

“I’m not saying that. But, I mean…” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “If he really saw the situation as that bleak, you’d think that he’d choose not to. Either because it would mean watching his kid die young, or because having a baby would take away from his ability to actually contribute to solving the problem.”

“So you think he’s lying?”

“More or less. I think he’s exaggerating his fears. How else could you explain someone who sees the world like that choosing to have a kid?”

Act two: 2022, inside my mind

“Listen,” my left brain says. “You saw the forecasts. You understand the dynamics in play here. You know what’s likely to happen in the coming years.”

My right brain, curled up and facing away in the corner of my mind, says nothing.

“We have an opportunity to help here. We have technical skills. The pandemic is lifting, we have time to pivot. AI labs are actively hiring. But that means we need fewer distractions. You can’t go on paternity leave right when you start a new job like that.”

My right brain says nothing.

“Besides, do you really want to have a kid if a disaster is incoming like that? I mean, think of what you might end up having to live through. Think of what the kid might have to live through. Is it worth it?”

My right brain, still curled up, shivers slightly.

My left brain continues. “You have to really ask yourself—”

“Fuck you,” my right brain interrupts.

My left brain gives him an indignant look. “What?”

My right brain suddenly stands up, pivots on its heel, and grabs my left brain by his collar, putting their faces an inch apart. “FUCK! YOU!” he yells.

“I—”

“No. Shut up and listen. Remember when we were a kid? Around the age of eleven or twelve? How the most basic thing we wanted for our life, growing up, was just to have a solid, honest job that pays the bills, a wife that loves us, and a family? Do you remember that? ANSWER ME.” His fist tightens and shakes.

“I–I guess…”

“There were ambitions beyond that, sure. But that has always been the baseline. Always. And now what? You want to abandon that? For what? For the chance that something bad happens?”

My left brain regains some of his composure. “But if a big enough disaster happens, we won’t have that anyway! And it’s looking more and more likely to—”

“You really want to give up on it? You want to turn that possibility into a certainty?”

“Listen, you saw what PaLM was capable of—”

“I don’t fucking care. Fuck you!”

“But—”

“FUCK! YOU!”

Act three: 2022, Jefferson Square Park, San Francisco

The fresh air of the park feels cool on my skin as I sit under a tree in silence, letting the internal conflict brew. I shake slightly under the conflicting feelings.

My wife turns to me, speaking gently. “Is now a good time to talk about why you were so upset this morning?”

Slowly, hesitatingly, I explained it to her, outlining what I’d been thinking, and my struggle around our intention to have kids.

“Oh, come here.” she says, embracing me. “It’s okay. We can still have our babies. And if we end up getting killed by AI, then it’s okay.”

I look at her with a conflicted expression. “How can you say that so casually?”

“I think I just have a different relationship with death than you do.”

I’m not sure I understand her. But I accept it.

Maybe I was just looking for an excuse, or for permission to feel the way I was feeling. Still, I accept it.

Act four: 2025, our home

Our son is the tiniest person I’ve ever seen. He’s sleeping on my chest, exhausted just from existing. His head is not much bigger than my fist, his entire body as long as my forearm.

He’d been born just days ago, a month before his due date. Not early enough to need extended hospital care, but early enough that we’d needed to rush out for nearly daily doctor’s appointments so they could monitor whether he was gaining enough weight.

In the midst of that whirlwind, this is a moment of calm. The outside world is still overstimulating to him, and he screams at everything from diaper changes to breastfeeding attempts. But here and now, I’m keeping him warm, a swaddle draped over his back, the skin contact soothing him and reminding him of the womb.

And somehow, despite my exhaustion, I’m happier than I’d been in a long time.

I’m surprised. I always thought the baby phase was something I’d put up with, until I get a kid who I can talk to, teach things, and show the world to. I thought the gratification would be much more delayed.

But no. This little guy, who struggles to drink milk, who won’t learn to smile for another three months, who cries because every discomfort is the worst he’s ever felt, is already everything to me.

I know I can’t protect him from everything. The world will, at some point, bring things I can’t handle. There will be challenges, only some of which I’ll see coming. I will make mistakes. I will make decisions that hurt him despite my best intentions.

I can only promise him that within my abilities, and my sphere of influence, I’ll do my best, and that I’ll love him every day of my life.