But I don’t unsend it.
I never get a single response.
Caelix grows faster than human babies. Vakutan genes, maybe. His spine straightens early. His little fists are strong. Hegrowlswhen he’s hungry, a low sound that makes the other mothers in the postnatal clinic side-eye me like I’m raising a rabid animal.
But he smiles too.
Oh, stars, hesmiles.
And when he falls asleep on my chest, his little claws curled against my skin, I stop giving a damn about who stares.
I’m raising a miracle. I’m raisinghim.
I go back to work at The Docking Bay Lounge two weeks after the birth. Jorla flips when she sees me walk in.
“You look like hell,” she says.
“Feel worse.”
She softens. “You bring him?”
“Daycare drone in the break room.”
Her eyes widen. “You strapped a military-grade watchbot with a pacifier?”
“He loves the sound of the repulsors,” I say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
She shakes her head. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
“Not denying it.”
And we get to work.
I learn how to change a diaper with one hand while holding a drink tray in the other. I memorize the sales cycle for formula supplements and learn which black-market vendor has the best rates on hypoallergenic wipes. I ration sleep in micro-doses and nap during my tram rides. I don’t drink. Don’t flirt. Don’t entertain questions.
Caelix comes first.
Always.
And even when I’m dead on my feet, even when my shoulders ache and my nipples are sore and my back’s a mess of tension knots, I go home, pick him up from the drone cradle, and hold him tight against my chest.
Because he’s mine.
Becausewematter, even if his father never thinks to show up.
But I still check the compad.
Every morning. Every night. Every break.
One message. One ping.
Anything.
Nothing.
Sometimes, I pretend maybe the system glitched. Maybe he never got them.
Maybe he’s dead.
