If your teenage son died in a freak accident, and you wanted another child, would you rather clone an identical twin of your dead son or try to have another child naturally?

This week’s question from Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions ventures into territory that feels almost too sacred to explore—the devastating loss of a child and the desperate human desire to somehow undo that loss. It’s a question that forces us to confront not only the depths of parental love but also our fundamental beliefs about identity, uniqueness, and what makes each human being irreplaceable.

The question is hypothetical, yet it carries the weight of real grief. While human reproductive cloning remains largely in the realm of science fiction and bioethical debate, the emotional landscape this question explores is painfully real for any parent who has lost a child or can imagine such a loss. In examining this dilemma, we’re not just considering reproductive technology—we’re exploring the very nature of human identity and the psychology of profound loss.

The Psychology of Parental Grief

To understand the appeal of cloning in this scenario, we must first acknowledge the unique devastation of losing a child. Grief researchers describe parental bereavement as one of the most severe forms of human loss, one that violates our basic assumptions about the natural order of life. Parents expect to die before their children; when this expectation is shattered, the psychological impact can be overwhelming.

Dr. Dennis Klass, a leading researcher in grief studies, describes parental grief as characterized by what he calls “continuing bonds”—the ongoing psychological relationship parents maintain with their deceased children. This isn’t pathological; it’s a natural part of how parents process such profound loss. The desire to maintain these bonds can manifest in many ways: preserving the child’s room unchanged, speaking to them mentally, or seeking ways to keep their memory alive.

In this context, the idea of cloning might seem to offer the ultimate continuation of that bond—not just memory, but physical resurrection. The clone would carry the same DNA, the same potential for familiar gestures, expressions, and perhaps even personality traits. For grieving parents, this could feel like a miracle, a way to undo the unbearable reality of loss.

But grief counseling research reveals something crucial about this fantasy: it’s built on a fundamental misunderstanding of both grief and identity. Healthy grief processing involves learning to live with loss rather than attempting to eliminate it. The goal isn’t to replace what was lost but to integrate the loss into a new understanding of life that can accommodate both love and absence.

The Burden of Genetic Similarity

My own answer to this question comes from a place of recognizing what such a choice would do to both the parents and the cloned child. If I were to choose cloning, I would be setting up an impossible situation. The clone would look exactly like my lost son as he aged, creating a constant, living reminder of what I had lost. But more troubling still, he wouldn’t be that same child.

This creates what bioethicists call the “identity burden”—the psychological weight placed on the clone to somehow fulfill expectations based on his genetic predecessor. Every deviation from the original child’s personality or choices would serve as a painful reminder that this new person is not, and never could be, the child we lost.

Developmental psychology tells us that identity formation is an incredibly complex process involving not just genetics but environment, timing, relationships, and countless unpredictable factors. Even identical twins raised in the same household develop distinct personalities, preferences, and life paths. A clone raised by grieving parents, in a family forever changed by loss, would inevitably develop differently from the original child who lived in a family untouched by such tragedy.

The cruel irony is that the more the clone differed from the original—which he inevitably would—the more painful his presence might become. And the more similar he seemed, the more devastating would be the moments when the illusion broke, when his unique personality shone through, reminding everyone involved that he is his own person, not a resurrection.

The Ethics of Replacement

The bioethics literature on reproductive cloning raises profound questions about the commodification of human life. When we consider cloning as a response to loss, we risk treating children as replaceable products rather than unique individuals worthy of love for who they are, not who they resemble.

Dr. Leon Kass, former chairman of the President’s Council on Bioethics, argued that cloning represents a fundamental shift in how we view children—from gifts to be received and loved unconditionally to projects to be designed and managed. In the context of grief, this shift becomes even more troubling. The cloned child would exist not for his own sake but as an attempt to heal his parents’ wounds, to fill a void left by another person.

This instrumental view of the child’s existence creates an inherent injustice. The clone would bear the psychological burden of living up to or living down the memory of someone else, of being forever compared to a person he could never truly replace because that person was irreplaceable to begin with.

There’s also the question of consent—not just the impossibility of obtaining consent from the deceased child whose DNA would be used, but the broader question of whether it’s ethical to create a person whose very existence is predicated on tragedy and whose role is to serve as a living memorial.

The Nature of Identity and Irreplaceability

At the heart of this dilemma lies a fundamental question about human identity. Are we simply the sum of our genetic code, or is there something more—something that makes each person truly unique and irreplaceable?

Modern psychology strongly supports the view that identity is far more complex than genetics alone. Our personalities emerge from an intricate interplay of genetic predisposition, environmental factors, timing, relationships, and countless micro-experiences that shape our neural pathways and worldview. Even if we could recreate identical circumstances—which we couldn’t—the simple fact that the clone would be born into a world already shaped by the original child’s existence would create a fundamentally different developmental context.

The concept of irreplaceability isn’t just philosophical—it’s deeply practical. When we love someone, we love their particular combination of traits, quirks, memories shared, and unique ways of being in the world. These elements exist in a specific historical context that cannot be repeated. The clone might share some genetic predispositions, but he would be a different person with his own story, his own struggles, and his own gifts.

Recognizing this irreplaceability is actually a form of honoring the deceased child. It acknowledges that what made him special wasn’t just his genetic code but his unique journey through life, his particular way of experiencing and responding to the world, and the specific relationships and memories he created. These cannot be duplicated because they exist in time and history, not in DNA.

The Wisdom of Natural Conception

Choosing to have another child naturally, if one chooses to have another child at all, represents a fundamentally different approach to dealing with loss. It acknowledges that the deceased child cannot and should not be replaced, while still allowing for the possibility of new love, new relationships, and new meaning.

A naturally conceived child would be welcomed as himself from the beginning. While comparisons to the deceased sibling would be inevitable and natural, they wouldn’t be the defining feature of his existence. He would have his own genetic combination, his own potential, and his own relationship with his parents that doesn’t depend on resembling someone else.

This choice also reflects a healthier approach to grief—one that seeks to create new meaning and new love rather than attempting to recreate what was lost. It acknowledges that healing comes not from erasing the reality of loss but from learning to live with it while remaining open to new sources of joy and connection.

From a psychological perspective, having a naturally conceived child allows the grieving parents to love someone new without the complicated expectations and comparisons that would inevitably accompany a clone. The new child becomes a bridge to a future that honors the past without being imprisoned by it.

The Commodification of Reproduction

This question also illuminates broader concerns about how technology might change our fundamental relationships with reproduction and family. The availability of cloning as an option represents part of a larger trend toward what sociologists call the “commodification of reproduction”—treating the creation of human life as a consumer choice subject to our preferences and specifications.

While reproductive technologies have brought tremendous joy to families struggling with infertility, they also raise questions about what happens when we become too comfortable with the idea of designing and controlling reproduction. The scenario presented in this question represents an extreme case, but it reflects real concerns about treating children as projects to be managed rather than individuals to be loved.

The choice to clone in response to loss would represent a particularly troubling form of commodification—treating the new child not even as a desired individual but as a means to an end, a therapeutic intervention designed to ease parental suffering. This instrumentalist view of human life conflicts with fundamental principles of human dignity and the inherent worth of every individual.

Processing Loss in a Technological Age

Our question also reflects broader challenges about how we process loss and meaning in an age of increasing technological capability. As our ability to manipulate and control various aspects of life expands, we may lose sight of the importance of accepting certain limitations and finding meaning within those constraints.

Grief, while painful, serves important psychological functions. It forces us to confront the reality of loss, to reorganize our understanding of life and meaning, and ultimately to develop greater depth and compassion. The availability of technological “solutions” to grief might seem appealing, but they risk short-circuiting processes that, while difficult, contribute to psychological and spiritual growth.

The choice to accept loss as irreversible and to find ways to honor the deceased while remaining open to new love and meaning represents a form of wisdom that technological solutions cannot replace. It acknowledges both the depth of what was lost and the possibility of finding new sources of meaning without diminishing the significance of the original relationship.

The Living Memorial

Perhaps most importantly, choosing natural conception over cloning reflects an understanding of what constitutes a meaningful memorial to a deceased child. A clone would be a living reminder of loss, forever tied to tragedy and comparison. A naturally conceived child, while not replacing the deceased sibling, could become part of a family’s ongoing story—one that honors the past while embracing the future.

The best memorial to a deceased child might not be an attempt at recreation but rather a commitment to living fully, loving deeply, and creating meaning from tragedy. This could involve advocacy work related to the cause of the child’s death, charitable work in his memory, or simply the decision to remain open to love and life despite having experienced devastating loss.

A naturally conceived child would grow up knowing about his deceased sibling not as someone he was meant to replace but as someone who was deeply loved and whose memory continues to shape the family’s values and commitments. This creates a healthier family dynamic and a more meaningful way of processing loss.

The Courage of Acceptance

Ultimately, the choice between cloning and natural conception reflects different approaches to one of life’s most fundamental challenges: learning to live with irreversible loss. The temptation to use technology to undo tragedy is understandable and deeply human. But wisdom lies in recognizing that some things cannot and should not be undone—not because we lack the technology, but because acceptance of loss is part of what makes us human.

Choosing to have another child naturally, if one chooses to have another child at all, represents a form of courage—the courage to love again without guarantees, to open oneself to new relationships without trying to recreate old ones, and to find meaning in the face of incomprehensible loss.

This doesn’t mean forgetting the deceased child or minimizing the significance of the loss. Rather, it means honoring that child’s unique and irreplaceable place in the family’s history while remaining open to new love, new meaning, and new sources of joy. It means recognizing that the best tribute to someone we’ve lost might be our willingness to continue living, loving, and finding beauty in the world despite having experienced its capacity for devastating tragedy.

In choosing the natural path, we acknowledge both the profound significance of what we’ve lost and the possibility of what we might still find. We honor the irreplaceable nature of every human being while affirming our faith in life’s capacity to offer new forms of meaning, even after the most devastating losses. This is perhaps the most human response to an inhuman situation—not the desperate attempt to undo tragedy, but the courageous decision to live with it while remaining open to love.