“Mom, where did the babies come from?”
“…an angel brought them.”
“Did we include instructions?” he asked.
No.
“…yes.”
Another pause.
“…we lost them.”
He spoke slowly.
So, everything was explained.
The next morning—
“Mom, I can’t find my shoes.”
“We, I always leave them at your place.”
“…Where did I leave them?”
“If I knew, you wouldn’t be asking.”
He thought about it.
“Is this part of the instructions?”
“…possibly.”
Winter morning—
“Why do I have to eat vegetables?”
“Because we’re good for your health.”
“How do you know?”
“…the instructions said so.”
“You said you lost them.”
She’s dead.
“…backup memory.”
That—
“Mom, why do I have to go to bed so early?”
“So you can grow up.”
“How?”
“…automatically updates.”
He blinked.
“…I don’t think your system works effectively.”
The next day, the teacher gave the class an assignment:
“Write about how you might be born.”
He chuckled.
Finally.
A topic he understood.
A few days later, reading his essay.
Going back halfway.
Reading it again.
This time slower.
“I was brought here by an angel.
I came with overheard words, but my parents lost them immediately.
From then on they only knew how to expect things.”
She turned the page.
And there’s more.
“Sometimes they restart me (afternoon nap time).
Sometimes they try to update (vegetables).
Most of the time, they just press random buttons and hope it works.”
The teacher folded the paper.
A deep breath.
At the bottom, in carefully written signatures, he added:
“System status: unstable,
But still working.”
She held on tight.
No.
Then, let’s:
“Please, parents, come inside.”
