A robot child goes missing in Sylvia Park’s “Luminous,” the New Scientist Book Club’s May selection.
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In 2024, a striking headline emerged: In a country with the world’s lowest birth rate, dog strollers outnumber baby strollers.
As our affection for pets becomes increasingly refined, the concept of parenthood often feels more like an obligation. In a world facing economic and environmental challenges, exacerbated by AI, traditional milestones appear elusive.
To express my appreciation, bright, emphasizes that this narrative originated as a children’s book. A family tragedy altered its path. Over several years, I experienced a succession of losses. The first was the death of a beloved dog.
He was fragile, charming with his silky fur and long eyelashes, drawing attention wherever he went. Despite being adored, he was also challenging—he had a distinct aversion to children. Yet, whenever we returned home, he danced about joyously. When we had to say goodbye, his suffering manifested as seizures, the first signs of a brain tumor.
The loss of a pet is fundamentally disruptive. Logically, one might anticipate this eventuality. Bringing an animal into our lives carries an implicit acknowledgment of its finite existence. We tell ourselves, “I know you will eventually depart.”
We often deceive ourselves. Headlines reveal how many have embraced the role of caregivers for these beloved animals—“fur babies,” we call them. The strollers we buy are not for infants but for our older furry companions. What could be more unnatural than losing something akin to a child?
This unnatural aspect inspired my exploration into the realm of robotics, particularly in the context of childhood. In my novel, a robot child goes missing, and her older guardian confronts the degradation not just of her sense of loss, but of her very identity. Aging takes its toll, evident in her diminished mobility; she grapples with the profound void left by the absence of her ‘daughter’, along with the loss of her housekeeper and assistant—all embodied in the robot child.
As robots become integral to our lives, our love for them might eventually be viewed as unconventional. The eeriest aspect is that these artificial beings, which elicit our affections, may not even possess consciousness. Yet, love them we will—just as we have done with countless living beings.
I sought to explore this emotional attachment and sorrow. How does one navigate grief for something deemed socially unacceptable? Not long ago, mourning a pet publicly was often met with the suggestion to “just get another one.” Today, jokes abound about taking time off work for a deceased pet. Grief complicates existence, especially when it lingers. We discuss “processing” grief as though it’s a task to be completed. In a society driven by productivity, being too sad to work renders one ‘unproductive,’ particularly for childless women with a love for animals. The attachment we develop for robotic children may soon face similar scrutiny.
And rightly so; we need to be cautious. Consider the ethics surrounding companies marketing these artificial relationships. Imagine robots cleaning, cooking, and even nurturing the elderly, perhaps embodied as a child designed to love and never leave us.
But what if that love isn’t genuine?
bright May 2026 article by Silvia Park (Oneworld). New Scientist Book Club. Join the conversation here.
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Source: www.newscientist.com
