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When the soldier from the Scout Legion comes and tells you your child is dead, you don’t cry. The officer gazes at you uncomfortably, waiting for the seemingly-inevitable tears, but in this regard you disappoint. Instead of sobbing, screaming, hurling accusations of blame, you nod in acceptance at the news you saw coming long before this Scout knocked on your door. You are surprised your child survived this long, honestly. They gaze at you warily, no doubt expecting something more dramatic than your simple calm, and seem relieved when they do not get it.
Your child was born sooner than was safe, and every moment of that life was precious. No one was optimistic about the baby’s chances but you. “A weak infant.” The doctor told you, when you gave birth. “A fragile spirit.” The Priest of the Walls told you, even as they blessed the child. “Not long for this world.” They all agreed on this. “Not your fault.” They all made sure to reassure you, shaking their heads in commiseration as they told you that it was an unfortunate fact, that your child was not likely to survive. Even your mother thought so, smiling sadly at the babe in her arms. “This one was born too early. They’ll leave the same way.”
You are a woman, only recently widowed, when you tell the world that No, you are wrong. And you stand by that. When others give up on your little child, too weak to stand, unable to walk when the other children begin to learn, you withhold judgement and watch as they try, again and again. Falling as many times as it takes, and when the time comes your child does not walk. Your child runs.
Your child lives like they never learned to accept life’s limitations, always chasing, always learning, always looking for something just out of sight. When the toddler is growing, just learning to talk, your child begins looking to the horizons and never stops.
When your child, not so young anymore but still a baby in your eyes, comes to you and says that “I am joining the military,” you are not as surprised as most think you should be. Because this is your child, the one you gave birth to, raised, and you watched grow up, spirit too large for the Walls to hold. You think, in retrospect, that you saw this coming. You do not need telling what branch will be chosen upon graduation for you to know. And it is because you know that your baby is lucky to be alive at all that you give your blessing. You accept that your child is a soldier, and you do not grieve when you wave goodbye at the training camp. You do not cry when you see your baby in a Cadet’s uniform. Instead you smile.
You are proud, when you receive a letter telling you that your child passed basic training with flying colors. You beam when you tell all the neighbors that your child, the one no one expected to live at all, is a soldier now, a member of the Scout Regiment, and you pretend not to notice when their glances turn pitying when they think you are not looking. And if the letters they send you acquire tearstains sometime between you receiving them and them being put delicately into a box for safekeeping, well. No one would blame you but yourself.
So when the soldier comes to break the news to you, you are not shocked. You grieve, but it is an old pain, and it is a companion you long since became used to. You have always known that it is an unfortunate fact of the world, that children born too soon are likely to leave the same way. You accepted this, the news of your child’s death, as the price for them living at all. Your child was meant for more than the steady monotony of the Walls, born chasing freedom. But what is choosing a death sentence, for a child that the world did not expect survival from at all?
From the moment your child first drew breath, you understood that each moment for them was precious, a miracle more than you could ever hope to receive. The world told you that your baby wasn’t likely to survive, and you were the only one that thought differently. You looked at the way your child watched the horizon, always searching for something more, and you knew that they were meant for more than they would find in the Walls. Your child might have been premature, as they called it, but still strong. So when the soldier comes, several decades later than you ever hoped, you do not cry. You nod. You say “Thank You.” But it isn’t just to the soldier, for telling you. It is to the universe as well. Not to curse the world for killing your child, but to thank it, for allowing them to live at all.
You are lucky in this, you suppose. Your child is dead, but you know your child fought it every step of the way, won more of the battles than anyone expected, or even knew. You hope that your baby found the freedom the Scouts chased, the one the world called them mad for wanting, the hope they valued more than their own chance of survival.
Your child is now dead. But you know that first, they lived.