In the years after corona, when families were trapped within the same four walls—satellites in shared spaces, never in shared time—something broke. The young women, who had watched their parents vote for parties that denied the climate crisis or simply failed to act while the world burned, chose to sever the ties. The older generation had had their chances. They had known. Yet they let the winds of time pass, while Greta Thunberg’s voice echoed unanswered.
Now, Gen-Z is writing its own rules. Pregnancies without fathers. Children without men. One-night stands where the name of the unknown father remains an empty field in the system—"unknown"—a word that, to the authorities, is an administrative note, but to these women is a deliberate declaration: We don’t need you. We don’t need your consent, your money, your absence.
Here, in the midst of the European heatwave, one woman nurses her child while another, pregnant, waits for her turn. The milk is theirs. The child is theirs. The future is theirs. Without compromise. Without apology. Without men.
This is not an escape. It is a declaration of independence—a new form of family where love and responsibility are defined not by blood, but by choice.

Poem: "We Write Ourselves"

We never waited
to be chosen,
to be seen,
to be approved.
Corona taught us
that loneliness is a space
where you can build
without asking for permission.
Now we carry life
as a given—
no father to name,
no man to apologise for.
The child is ours.
The body is ours.
The story is ours.
You write us into your laws,
into your books,
into your questions—
but we write ourselves out.
We write ourselves anew.

Haikus

1.
Heatwave scorches—
two mouths, one breast, one path.
We choose us.
2.
The baby cries.
No one asks: Where is he?
We know who we are.
3.
Light in the window.
Milk, sweat, laughter—no one asks.
We are enough.