or hesitate to love

Surit grew up believing his mother had been a traitor, and Elvi didn’t tell him otherwise. There was another childhood he could have had, with less anger directed to his absent gen-parent. No, not less, none: Surit thought in absolutes, especially when he was young. If he had thought she’d done the right thing, he would have stood stalwartly by the memory of her sacrifice. It would have stood in for any memory of Marit herself.

But that would have required a different alt-parent. Not Elvi, who, after Marit was already gone, chose to raise her child; who operated on the principle that to contradict what someone said about you was to accept their terms. Elvi kept Marit’s memory private and didn’t explain himself. Not to the army that denied him her pension. Not to the neighbors who asked him “but how are you?” and, even more significantly, “how’s the little one?” Not to Surit’s teachers when they noticed his surname and started to ask, but cut themselves off on seeing Elvi’s face. And not to Surit himself, who built his certainty around that absence, giving himself the job of redeeming a loss he did not yet begin to understand.

In most of Resolution Space, it would be too early for the two of them to think about children. Tennal has more perspective on that, now that he’s been outside Orshan Sector. Other sectors aren’t shaped by war; they don’t have soldiers freezing their genetic material and dying in their early twenties. In other systems, people have time.

But they’re from Orshan. And Tennal is still a powerful reader, and Surit isn't shielding himself, so Tennal can’t help noticing when Surit notices a passing parent and child and feels something wistful about it.

“Whoa,” he says, “slow down.”

Surit looks at him, his brows up. He doesn’t try to deny what just happened. He says, “I’m already older than Marit lived to be.”

“I know that, obviously. We’re both in that boat.”

“I wasn’t trying to start anything, it was just sweet. Did you see how—”

“Yes, I saw how they were holding the tips of the kid’s fingers. I’m a reader, I notice things. But come on. We’re us.”

“Again,” Surit says. “Not trying to start anything.”

But he still feels wistful. And he's started a spark of maybe someday behind Tennal’s sternum.

He tries to let it go; they go back to their nice lunch on a sidewalk in downtown Exana. Tennal savors the sweetly humid air and the cradle of planetary gravity, the sight of Surit across the table and the soothing presence of Surit’s mind. That’s plenty.

But he can’t compartmentalize like Surit, and eventually he can’t help saying, “Do you think there’s hope for either of us as a parent?”

Surit puts down his dessert fork. “We each built each other back from scratch. Surely that's harder.” He looks Tennal in the eye, broadcasting a carefully considered trust. “I think there must be some hope.”