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Published:

October 8, 2023

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Wake-up-Roger. It-is-time-for-school, Motherbot said in her robotic voice, which at first had disturbed Roger, but by now he was quite used to. What-would-you-like-for-breakfast?

 

“Waffles please,” Roger said.

 

Waffles-it-is.

 

Roger sat at the table. His father, as usual, paid no attention to him; drinking his coffee and cursing that morning’s news. He had purchased the Motherbot a year ago, after the death of his wife. Single fathers everywhere had done the same.

 

Motherbots could shop for groceries, prepare meals, drive and pick up children from school, and attend parent nights. They could converse on any topic, and tell stories from a database which included millions. And because raising children was often an improvised task, they could also learn from mistakes. Their premier feature was a special chip; equipped with a mechanized, primal-like instinct for maternal protection.

 

Although Roger liked Motherbot, he didn’t think he could love her, because she wasn’t human. Every day, he tried to connect with his father. “Daddy?” Roger asked.

 

“Hmm?” His father said, still reading.

 

“Mrs. Marston, the art teacher, picked my drawing of a clown to hang in the library. Will you come to the show?”

 

“That’s nice,” his father replied, having not heard a single word. He got up and handed Motherbot his empty coffee cup and grabbed his coat and briefcase. “Have a good day at school… Oh, I may not come home tonight. Listen to Motherbot and I’ll see you soon.” He turned to Motherbot; “Take good care of him.”

 

I-always-do, she replied. After he left, she looked at Roger, Are-you-ready-Roger?

 

“Yeah,” Roger said, the look of disappointment still on his face.

 

She scanned his features and the word sad flashed on her inner-screen. Do-not-worry-Roger, she said, I-will-attend-your-show.

 

“I don’t care,” Roger said despondently.

 

In the car, on their way to school, Roger asked, “Motherbot? What is father?”

 

Motherbot replied, A-male-whose-sperm-unites-with-an-egg-producing-an-embryo.

 

“Is that all?”

 

Also-a-male-whose-impregnation-of-a-female-results-in-the-birth-of-a-child.

 

“Oh?” Roger said. “What about love?”

 

Love-is-a-strong-feeling-of-affection-and-concern-for-another-person, she said.

 

“But why is it separate from father?” He asked... Oh forget it. All you can do is repeat definitions from the dictionary.”

 

I-am-sorry-Roger.

 

“Oh, it’s alright. I guess it’s not your fault.” They pulled up in front of the school and Roger got out, “See ya.”

 

See-ya, Motherbot replied, quickly picking up this new lingo.

 

While she waited for school to let out, Motherbot recharged in the special parking lot assigned to her kind. She used this time to rewind the communication of the day, and learn how to better serve Roger.

 

“Hi,” Roger said, climbing into the front seat and closing the door.

 

Hel-lo-Roger. How-was-school-today?

 

“It sucked,” Roger replied.

 

What-is-sucked-Roger?

 

“Sucked is boring. No fun. How was your recharge?”

 

It-sucked-too.

 

Roger giggled.

 

Ha-ha-ha, Motherbot echoed, making Roger laugh even harder.

 

“So I guess Dad won’t be coming home tonight?” He asked.

 

No-he-will-not. I-am-sorry-Roger.

 

“Why? It’s not your fault?”

 

It-is-not-your-fault-either, Motherbot said, remembering what she had read in a psychology book.

 

“Sure it is,” Roger said, folding his arms. “It’s me he doesn’t want to see, isn’t it?”

 

It-is-responsibility-he-does-not-want, Motherbot said.

 

“Well, it still hurts,” he said, turning away to look out the window.

 

What-is-hurt-Roger?

 

“Hurt is a pain,” he said, pointing to his chest, “In here.”

 

What-can-I-do-to-relieve-this-“hurt”- Roger?

 

“Nothing.” He said, turning away again. “There is nothing you can do. It is to do with people.”

 

That night, Roger’s mood was even worse. Roger? Motherbot asked. Do-you-want-to-watch-a-movie?

 

He shrugged. “I don’t think I feel like it.”

 

I-can-make-nachos. Your-fav-or-ite, she said.

 

“Can we watch anything?” Roger asked.

 

Anything-you-like.

 

“Something scary?”

 

Yes-Roger. Even-something-scary.

 

“Ok I guess.”

 

Motherbot turned off all the lights, projecting the movie onto a large white wall. She had a nasty habit of talking during movies, but that night Roger didn’t mind.

 

A girl in the movie was walking into the room where the killer was waiting.

 

She-should-not-go-in-there, Motherbot said.

 

“She has to,” Roger explained, “So’s we can get to the scary part.”

 

The horror music played at its usual terrifying intervals until the maniac popped out of the closet, and Roger screamed.

 

Ahhhhh. Motherbot said.

 

Roger laughed. “You’re funny Motherbot.”

 

Does-this-suck-Roger?

 

“No,” he said, laughing again, “This doesn’t suck at all.”

 

At the end, Motherbot asked, Why-was-the-criminal-not-apprehended-Roger?

 

“Oh, they always do that,” Roger explained, “So they can make another movie.”

 

I-see.

 

While Motherbot was tucking him in, Roger asked, “Will my father be here tomorrow?”

 

I-don’t-know-Roger.

 

“Can you stay in here tonight? In case I have a nightmare?”

 

Yes-Roger. I-will-stay-right-here. She sat in the armchair next to him, projecting a neon solar system onto the ceiling.

 

Motherbot and Roger got to the show at around eight. The art teacher, Mrs. Marston, came over.

 

“Hello Roger. So glad you made it. Is your father here?” She asked.

 

“No,” Roger said, “He’s dead.”

 

She looked at Motherbot. “My God, is that true? What happened?”

 

Motherbot looked at Roger’s dejected features. A-maniac-popped-out-of-the-closet-and-killed-him, she said.

 

“Oh My! How awful!” Mrs. Marston said.

 

Roger looked up at Motherbot, then put his hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe you did that!” He said after his teacher walked away, “I didn’t know you could lie?”

 

I-will-lie-to-make-you-happy-Roger, she said.

 

“Thanks Motherbot,” he said, and hugged her.

 

Let’s-go-look-at-your-drawing.

 

“Ok.”

 

It was not a happy clown. What made it stand out was that the colors were purposely dirty. He had scratched the orange face with red. Bright green with dark green. Red with brown and yellow. Pink with black. It looked traumatized. Motherbot, who had the entire history of art in her database, immediately recognized it as something significant.

 

This-is-very-good-Roger, she said.

 

“You really think so?” Roger asked.

 

It-is-art-Roger.

 

“I was sad when I drew it,” he said.

 

Hurt? Motherbot asked.

 

“Yes Motherbot,” Roger smiled, “Hurt.”

 

 

 

Copyright 2023 - SFS Publishing LLC

Motherbot

She will learn what a child needs

Hala Dika

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