If your parents never had children, chances are you won't either.

Host: The afternoon sun was sinking behind the city skyline, painting the windows in gold and crimson. The air inside the apartment was still, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic below. A half-empty bottle of wine sat between two glasses on a cluttered wooden table — photographs, letters, and a notebook scattered like the remnants of a life unpacked.

Jack leaned back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled, his grey eyes tired but alert, staring at nothing in particular. Jeeny sat opposite him, barefoot, hair loose, a faint smudge of ink on her hand. The room was quiet, intimate, and slightly messy — like two lives in the middle of being figured out.

Jeeny: She smiled, her voice light, teasing. “You know, Dick Cavett once said, ‘If your parents never had children, chances are you won’t either.’”

Jack: He blinked, then laughed, a short, rough sound. “That’s not philosophy, Jeeny. That’s math.”

Jeeny: She grinned, leaning forward. “Maybe. But it’s clever, isn’t it? A joke that hides a truth. I think it’s about how we inherit not just genes, but choices. If your parents never wanted kids, you probably learned to live without the idea of family.”

Host: Jack tilted his glass, watching the wine catch the light. His expression shifted — from amusement to thought.

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just a way to make people laugh at their own existence. Cavett was a comic, not a prophet.”

Jeeny: “Comics are prophets. They tell truths we can only swallow with laughter.”

Host: The sunlight slid lower, casting long shadows across the floor, stretching toward their feet like quiet ghosts.

Jack: “You’re saying there’s meaning behind the joke. That somewhere in that little quip about nonexistent parents and unborn children, there’s some grand commentary about inheritance, humanity, destiny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not grand. Maybe just real. It’s about continuity — or the lack of it. If our parents never gave us life, we’d never stand here, debating meaning over cheap wine.”

Jack: He smirked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re making philosophy out of absurdity.”

Jeeny: “That’s what life is, Jack — absurd philosophy.”

Host: The sound of sirens drifted faintly through the open window, mixing with the hum of the evening. A cool breeze moved the curtains, lifting the smell of rain from the street below.

Jack: “You know what it really is? A joke about inevitability. You can’t come from nothing. You can’t inherit what doesn’t exist. It’s like a cosmic paradox wrapped in sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! That’s the beauty of it. It’s like saying: your existence depends on the impossible becoming real. The absurd had to happen — your parents had to exist, had to choose, had to live — for you to even question it.”

Host: Jack laughed, but his laugh had a trace of melancholy. He set his glass down with a soft thud.

Jack: “And yet, most people don’t even think about that. They’re too busy blaming their parents for everything that went wrong.”

Jeeny: Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “And you?”

Jack: He hesitated. “I stopped blaming mine a long time ago. But I stopped admiring them too. They just… survived. Like everyone else.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival was the most heroic thing they could do.”

Host: A pause — the kind that fills the room not with silence, but with memory. The clock on the wall ticked, the sound steady, measured.

Jack: “You really think our parents’ choices shape whether we want families of our own?”

Jeeny: “Of course. We either repeat them or rebel against them. Some people grow up in warmth and chase the same. Others grow up in fire and run from it forever.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: She looked away, her voice softer now. “I think I’d rather build a new pattern. Not repeat or reject — just rewrite.”

Host: The light shifted, turning from gold to amber, the color of reflection. Jack watched her, his face half in shadow, half in understanding.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No, I make it sound possible.”

Jack: “You always do.”

Host: The breeze picked up, rustling the papers on the table, one of them lifting, floating, landing face down on the floor. Jack picked it up — an old photograph, creased, faded. Two young parents, smiling, holding a baby between them.

Jack: He stared at it for a moment. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think they were superheroes. Then I grew up and realized they were just two scared people who didn’t know what they were doing.”

Jeeny: Her voice gentle, almost a whisper. “Maybe that’s all any parent is.”

Host: The rain began, softly, tapping against the glass, the sound like fingers on memory.

Jack: “So maybe Cavett’s line isn’t about family at all. Maybe it’s about existence itself. How everything depends on something before it — how no one escapes cause and effect. We’re all chained to the absurd logic of life.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here we are — proof that absurdity works.”

Jack: “Or proof that the universe has a sense of humor.”

Jeeny: She laughed, her eyes brightening. “Then maybe the point isn’t to find meaning, but to laugh with it. Cavett wasn’t mocking existence — he was reminding us to take it lightly. Because if we’re lucky enough to be here, we might as well enjoy the joke.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked — as if the joke had finally hit him. The corner of his mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.

Jack: “You know, for a comic’s line, that’s one hell of a mirror.”

Jeeny: “Humor always is. It shows truth dressed in laughter.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, steady, cleansing, alive. The city outside blurred into motionless watercolor, while the two of them sat, quiet, still, human.

Jack refilled their glasses, raising his own toward her.

Jack: “To absurdity, then. And to parents — whether they knew what they were doing or not.”

Jeeny: She clinked her glass against his. “And to the joke that made us possible.”

Host: They drank, the wine catching the last light of day — red, deep, reflective.

Outside, the rain kept falling, steady and true, like the rhythm of the universe quietly laughing at its own creation.

And in that laughter, warm and infinite, two souls found their peace — not in the answer, but in the beautiful, inevitable joke of being alive.