One nurse asks if I want to list the father on the certificate.
I just look at her.
She doesn’t ask again.
The days after are a blur of antiseptic and lullabies. Feeding schedules and sleepless nights. His cries are like sirens—sharp, urgent, impossible to ignore. My breasts ache. My back feels like I got hit by a hover rig. Every time I stand up too fast, the world tilts sideways and mocks me.
But his breath—light, soft, sometimes wheezy from his not-quite-human lungs—it centers me.
There’s a moment, maybe day four, where he stops mid-wail andlooksat me. Like he knows. Like he sees through all my bullshit.
And I think,Okay. I can do this.
I wait a week before I try to contact him.
Troka.
Because even though he left, even though he vanished without a single damned word, he deserves to know.
I don’t know how long soldiers serve. I don’t know where they get deployed. I don’t even know if he’salive.
But I find a contact point—backdoor military uplink through a cadet I bribed with free drinks and a promise of discretion—and I send the first message.
It’s simple.
“You have a son.”
Nothing dramatic. No threats. No pleas. Just the truth.
When the message doesn’t bounce back, my stomach flips.
He got it.
Hesawit.
I wait.
No reply.
Over the next few weeks, I send more.
“He has your eyes.”
“He started smiling yesterday.”
“We’re doing okay. But you should know.”
Each one gets more raw. Moreme. Less guarded.
“I don’t need your help. But he might want to know you someday.”
“He deserves better than silence.”
“You left without a word. You think that didn’t matter? It mattered.”
Then at last, “Coward.”
I regret that one the second it sends.
