We Need to Talk About Kevin

by Lionel Shriver

These talks of ours had a gameliness, and your opening play was noncommittal. One of us always got lodged into the role of parental party pooper, and I had rained on the progeny parade in our previous session: A child was loud, messy, constraining, and ungrateful. This time I bid for the more daring role: “At least if I got pregnant, something would happen.” “Obviously,” you said dryly. “You’d have a baby.” I dragged you down the walkway to the riverfront. “I like the idea of turning the page is all.” “That was inscrutable.” “I mean, we’re happy? Wouldn’t you say?” “Sure,” you concurred cautiously. “I guess so.” For you, our contentment didn’t bear scrutiny—as if it were a skittish bird, easily startled, and the moment one of us cried out Look at that beautiful swan! it would fly away. “Well, maybe we’re too happy.” “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I wish you could make me a little more miserable.” “Stop it. I’m talking about story. In fairy tales, ‘And they lived happily ever after’ is the last line.” “Do me a favor: Talk down to me.” Oh, you knew exactly what I meant. Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn’t tell well. And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story. I should know; I am in flight from my story every day, and it dogs me like a faithful stray. Accordingly, the one respect in which I depart from my younger self is that I now regard those people who have little or no st...