Clearly, society has a tremendous stake in insisting on a woman's

Host: The station clock ticked above the grey platform, its hands trembling against a ceiling of steel and smoke. Outside, the rain fell in thin, slanted threads, painting streaks on the windows of waiting trains. The air smelled of iron, coffee, and departure — that peculiar scent of people leaving and staying at the same time.

In a corner of the station café, under a flickering fluorescent bulb, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. The table between them was littered with newspapers, a half-eaten sandwich, and the echoes of unspoken arguments.

Host: Jeeny’s hands rested on a book — Ann Oakley’s “The Sociology of Housework.” Her eyes were tired, but her voice, when it came, was clear and bright, like light piercing fog.

Jeeny: “Oakley wrote, ‘Clearly, society has a tremendous stake in insisting on a woman's natural fitness for the career of mother: the alternatives are all too expensive.’”

She looked up. “Do you think she was right?”

Jack: (his voice low, measured) “Right in observation, yes. But not in morality. She wasn’t celebrating it — she was warning us. The system needs women to mother because it can’t afford them doing anything else. It’s economics disguised as biology.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose, curling like ghosts between them. A train groaned in the background, its brakes hissing like a sigh.

Jeeny: “And yet, even now, people still call it ‘natural.’ Still treat motherhood like a default, like it’s written in DNA. It’s the same old story — society calling its own convenience destiny.”

Jack: (leans back, eyes narrowing) “You talk like it’s all deliberate — as if there’s some grand conspiracy of men in smoky rooms plotting motherhood. But sometimes ‘natural’ isn’t oppression, Jeeny. Sometimes it’s just… human continuity.”

Jeeny: “Continuity built on whose exhaustion?”

Host: The question hung, like smoke refusing to dissipate. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not with tears but with fury softened by love — love for something bigger than herself.

Jeeny: “Every generation calls women ‘naturally’ suited to care — for children, the sick, the elderly. Funny how ‘natural’ always means unpaid. How ‘love’ always replaces salary.”

Jack: “You’re not wrong,” he said, stirring his coffee, watching the dark swirl. “But you can’t erase biology, Jeeny. It’s not only social construct. Women do have instincts — nature gave them that for a reason.”

Jeeny: (quietly, sharply) “Instinct isn’t obligation. You think fathers don’t have instincts? You think tenderness only comes with a womb?”

Host: Her words struck like glass breaking, the sound of truth too close to ignore. Jack paused, inhaling deeply, the kind of breath one takes before either surrender or counterattack.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Undo motherhood? Industrialize it? Pay salaries for love? It’s not that simple. If we start treating nurturing as labor, we risk commodifying the one thing that’s still sacred.”

Jeeny: “Sacred doesn’t mean free. You can honor motherhood and still see the injustice in how it’s used. Look at the post-war years — women sent home from factories once the men returned. Society told them, ‘Your duty is at home.’ Why? Because paying them equally was too expensive. Oakley was right — society can’t afford equality, so it sanctifies inequality instead.”

Host: A train horn wailed, long and distant, like a memory refusing to fade. The sound filled the pause between them, echoing off metal beams and wet glass.

Jack: (leaning forward now) “You make it sound as if motherhood itself is a cage.”

Jeeny: “It’s not motherhood that’s the cage, Jack — it’s the bars built around it. The idea that a woman’s worth peaks in maternity. That her ‘natural’ place is in the service of someone else’s life. What about the women who choose not to be mothers? Society treats them like they’ve betrayed their species.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the roof. A nearby light flickered, as if reacting to the heat of their words.

Jack: “And yet, many women do find fulfillment in motherhood. Isn’t that worth preserving? Not every tradition is oppression.”

Jeeny: (nods slowly) “Yes. But it should be choice, not destiny. Fulfillment loses meaning when it’s the only path offered. When a girl grows up hearing ‘you’ll be a mother someday,’ but never ‘you can be anything.’ That’s not nature. That’s narrative.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, filled with reflections — not just of the two sitting here, but of centuries of others: mothers, workers, dreamers.

Jack: “So what, then? Redefine motherhood? Split it from womanhood entirely?”

Jeeny: “Redefine society’s expectations. Let motherhood be chosen, not imposed. Let men share it fully. Let care be valued as labor, not taken as duty. You see, the alternative isn’t to reject motherhood — it’s to stop using it as an excuse to limit women’s horizons.”

Host: Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, her voice glowing with something fierce — compassion weaponized by intellect. Jack’s eyes softened, his frown easing into something like remorse.

Jack: “You know… when my mother raised three of us alone after my father left, everyone called her ‘strong.’ But no one ever asked if she wanted to be. Maybe that’s what Oakley meant — society praises women’s strength so it doesn’t have to confront its own dependence.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Exactly. We glorify sacrifice to hide exploitation. Call it love, call it instinct — anything but labor.”

Host: The rain began to slow, each drop spaced wider, as though even the sky was listening. The station announcements echoed distantly, but inside their corner, time bent, quiet, alive.

Jack: “So we’ve built a world that survives on women’s unpaid labor — emotional, domestic, maternal — and then we dare to call it natural.”

Jeeny: “And the cruelest part? Many women defend it. Because it’s safer to believe your role is sacred than to admit it’s exploited. It’s not weakness; it’s survival.”

Host: Jack nodded, the fight in his voice fading into reflection. He glanced out the window, watching a young mother lift her child onto the train — the tiny hands clutching at her coat, the woman’s smile trembling between pride and fatigue.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe the real expense Oakley spoke of wasn’t economic. Maybe it’s emotional — the cost of all that unseen work, the endless giving.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The debt society never pays back.”

Host: A long silence followed. The station quieted, the last train pulling away, leaving only the hum of lights and the echo of departing footsteps.

Jeeny: (gently) “We don’t need to erase motherhood, Jack. We just need to make it equal — shared, supported, respected. A career, if you will, not a fate.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And maybe, when that happens, both women and men will finally be free to be fully human — not just what biology or society assigns.”

Host: The light above them steadied, no longer flickering. The rain ceased, leaving the windows streaked with quiet silver lines.

Jeeny closed the book, and for a moment, both of them simply watched the reflection of the platform — empty now, except for the faint glow of a sign that read “Departures.”

Jack: “Funny. The more we talk about motherhood, the more it feels like everyone’s still waiting for permission to leave the station.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to start boarding.”

Host: The camera pulls back, the station lights dimming behind them. Two figures, side by side, rise, step forward, and walk toward the open doors — not in opposition anymore, but in understanding.

The world outside is still wet, but it’s clearing — and somewhere beyond the tracks, the future hums softly, like a train ready to move.