Letter from the Stars

Dear Mom,

I know it’s been more than a few years, but if I don’t start writing, if I don’t engage in this conversation with you, it will probably be too late.

I’ve learned things, I’ve come to understand things, they gave me a different perspective on life. I always regretted how we left things last time we met. I know now, I was a spoiled brat, thinking that my understanding was complete, that my maturity was complete, that my judgement was final. And I left you there, holding back my tears, holding back my anger, holding back my love for you.

The thing is, Mom, out here in the dark between the stars, where the only light comes from dying suns and the only warmth from fusion cores that hum like mechanical heartbeats, a man gets to thinking. Gets to remembering. Gets to regretting in ways that crawl up your spine like spiders made of guilt and remorse.

I think about that last morning, the way you stood in the doorway wearing that ridiculous yellow bathrobe with the coffee stains – yes, I remember the coffee stains, Mom, I remember everything now with a clarity that’s both blessing and curse. How you tried to smile when I told you I was leaving Earth, leaving the solar system, leaving everything we’d ever known to join the Kepler expedition. How your face cracked just a little around the edges, like old paint on a window frame.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” you said. But I did, didn’t I? I had to prove I was bigger than our small house, bigger than your small dreams, bigger than the small planet that had raised me. What a cosmic joke that turned out to be.

Out here, I travel at seventy percent light speed toward a star. I can’t even remember the star’s name properly. As I watch the universe red-shift and blue-shift around our little metal coffin, I’ve had time to think. Twenty-three years of ship time. I know it’s been longer for you back on Earth. Relativity is a cruel mistress, Mom. She steals time from the people we love most.

The crew here, they’re good people. Scientists, explorers, dreamers. But late at night, the ship’s night cycle dims the corridors to a whisper of illumination. The only sound is the eternal whoosh of recycled air and distant engine thrum. At this time, they all whisper about home. About the people they left behind. About the mistakes that drove them to the stars.

I’ve made friends with Dr. Grotzky from the biochemistry lab. Nice woman, reminds me of you sometimes – the way she hums when she works, the way she saves the last bite of her dessert ration for whoever looks like they need it most. She lost her son too, in a way. Not to space, but to addiction, to the needle, to the street. She cries sometimes when she thinks no one can hear.

And there’s Lieutenant Lundberg from navigation, who joined the expedition after his husband died in the Luna mining accident. He talks to his husband’s photo every night, tells him about the nebulae we’ve passed, the cosmic phenomena we’ve catalogued. Love doesn’t die just because you’re floating in the void, Mom. It just gets lonelier.

I want you to know I’ve grown up out here. The universe has a way of making you small, of showing you that your problems, your anger, your rebellious certainty – it all shrinks to nothing against the backdrop of infinity. I understand now what you were trying to tell me about responsibility, about family, about staying connected to the things that matter. I understand, and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I called your life “provincial.” I’m sorry I said you were “afraid to dream big.” I’m sorry I accused you of trying to clip my wings when all you were doing was trying to keep me tethered to the people who loved me. God, Mom, the arrogance of youth is a terrible thing, and I was more arrogant than most.

The worst part is, I know this letter will take years to reach you. By the time you read these words, I’ll be even further away, approaching the Kepler system, beginning the survey that will determine whether humanity has a second home among the stars. And you’ll be older, grayer, smaller. Time is running out for both of us, and distance is our enemy.

But I need you to know: every star I’ve catalogued, I’ve named in my heart for something about home. For the way you made pancakes on Sunday mornings. For the sound of your laugh. For the smell of your perfume. For the warmth of your hand on my forehead when I was sick. I’ve been carrying you with me across the galaxy, Mom, even when I was too stupid and too proud to admit it.

I hope you’re well. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve forgiven me, because I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself.

Your son, lost among the stars but finally finding his way back to love,

David

P.S. – Oh, and Mom? You might want to sit down for this next part. Remember how I always said I’d make it up to you someday? Well, funny story – turns out I accidentally got married to an alien during our stop at the Proxima station. Her name is Zx’thylla. She has seventeen eyes and communicates through interpretive dance and telepathy. She makes the most incredible soufflé with ingredients I can’t even pronounce. We’re expecting 14 sets of twins next cycle. Hope you don’t mind being a galactic grandmother! By the way, she wants to know if you have any good recipes for cooking with liquid methane.