I always knew that the child of Howard and I would be special, but I had no idea just how special. From the moment he was born, there was something different about him. It started subtly enough—he barely cried, instead staring at everything with an eerie intensity, as if he was analyzing the world around him with a mind far older than his body suggested.
Then came the telepathic projections.
The first time it happened, I was in the middle of reading when an image popped into my mind. It was clear, undeniable—an overwhelming impression of discomfort, filth, and, oddly enough, a strong emphasis on poop. I blinked, confused, until the smell hit me. Howard and I shared a look, and in that moment, I realized that my newborn son was broadcasting his needs directly into our minds.
From then on, things only got stranger.
He spoke far earlier than any child should have. While most babies babble their way into speech, our son's first word was neither "mama" nor "dada." No, with the impatience of someone who had no time for trivialities, his first spoken word was an emphatic "Books!"
Shocked but delighted, we gave him some beginner-level books, hoping to encourage his desire to learn how to read. Learn he did and at a speed none of us thought possible. Then his enthusiasm quickly turned into frustration. One evening, we found him glaring at a children's book before throwing it across the room with an irritated cry of, "For stupid thots!"
I had no idea what a 'thot' was, but the vehemence in his tone suggested it wasn't complimentary. Howard, amused yet intrigued, decided to test him. We kept offering progressively more advanced books until finally, we introduced him to Howard's private collection of scientific journals and theoretical physics papers. That, at last, seemed to satisfy him.
Every night, Howard now reads advanced particle physics to our son as a bedtime story. I do my best to read to him as well, but truth be told, I have no idea what half of it means. And yet, our little boy drinks it all in, his mind an insatiable sponge.
His learning didn't stop there. Over the years, he absorbed knowledge on every subject: physics, mathematics, geology, history, geography, psychology, and even philosophy. One night, we heard a tiny, distressed wail from his room. Rushing in, I found him curled up in bed, eyes filled with an existential sadness far too profound for a child his age.
"I need mom hugs," he whimpered. "The purpose of my existence is pointless since humanity is going to perish anyways when the sun eventually goes supernova."
I held him close, whispering soothing reassurances, even as my heart ached at the sheer weight of knowledge pressing down on his tiny shoulders. He was just a child, and yet he carried the worries of a seasoned scientist who had peered too long into the abyss of cosmic insignificance.
As time passed, he grew more determined, more resolute. He had a purpose now, and it was one that worried me deeply.
"I must uplift humanity," he declared one evening over dinner, his tiny hands gripping a fork with unsettling intensity. "We need a centralized regime, a world government, to unify our species and ensure our survival."
Howard, ever the pragmatist, nodded in mild approval, but I felt a chill run down my spine.
It was a noble goal, perhaps even a logical one, but something about the way he said it—the certainty, the conviction—made me uneasy. It felt… downright un-American. Yet, what could a mother do but support her son?
I love my child, but deep down, I fear what he might become.