He left like he always does. Except this time, it wasn’t a strategic disappearance or a smoke bomb escape. It was just him, standing in my kitchen, coffee still warm on the counter, walking out because I told him to.
Because I had to tell him to. Didn’t I?
Everything inside me feels coiled, tight, wound up like a wire on the verge of snapping. I try to stretch. I stand, pace my tiny living room, glance out the window. Nothing out there butneighbor kids drawing on the pavement with glow chalk. My hands tremble as I pick up my mug. Cold. The stim-caf’s bitter now, gone past saving. I drink it anyway.
I shouldn’t be this shaken. It was just a kiss. Just.
The Holopad pings. I flinch. Not because I’m surprised, but because I was hoping it was him. It’s not.
From: Haven-7 Elementary. Subject: Galaxy Culture Day
I tap open the message.
We’re thrilled to welcome parent speaker Kairo Jones, who will be giving a presentation on Ethics in Journalism! Coordinated by Mr. Kuraken.
My thumb hovers.
Mr. Kuraken.
Of course. Of course. He would.
Stars help me, he’s still trying.
The next morning,I walk into the school auditorium with that familiar knot in my stomach. Not nerves. Not exactly. Just... anticipation laced with dread. I’ve been juggling identities for so long—single mother, successful author, reluctant celebrity—I don’t know which mask to wear anymore.
I follow the chaotic sounds into the gymnasium.
And stop short.
It’s a circus. A diplomatic circus.
There are booths set up in wild, chaotic lines, labeled with planets I’m fairly certain don’t exist on official star charts. Someone’s frying what smells like roasted blubber fruit. A child in a full Zergan formal robe is offering “handcrafted” peace treaties made out of glitter paste.
And there, in the far corner, is a crudely painted sign that reads: HUMAN HISTORY. Below it, Ben is proudly showing off a diorama of me in my early journalism days—complete withtiny paper coffee cups and a quote bubble that reads, “Excuse me, do you know who you’re laundering credits for?”
I snort. Loudly.
He sees me and waves both arms, nearly knocking over a model of Old Earth’s Capitol Dome.
“Mama! Look! I made you a reporteraction figure!”
I smile despite myself and head toward him, but I’m intercepted by Principal Jennings, her usual bun unraveling into frazzled curls.
“You’re up next,” she whispers, handing me a mic that’s buzzing with feedback. “We’re five minutes behind, the Clyntari booth’s gelatin sculptures are melting, and one of the Skarran parents tried to trade their dessert table for a new hoverbike. So. Good luck!”
My stomach flips.
I take the mic. My steps echo in the sudden hush. Kids sit crisscrossed in front of me, some eating cookies shaped like constellations.
“Hi,” I start. “I’m Kairo. Ben’s mom.”
A few murmurs.
“And I write stories. Real ones. The kind that get people angry. Or inspired. Or arrested.”
Laughter. Good. I can work with this.
I tell them about ethics, about why telling the truth matters. I talk about power—how people in charge don’t always want to be seen clearly. How shining a light can be risky, but worth it.
