Our Little Secret

By Fulvio Gatti

“Daddy! Why don’t I look like you?”

I cough to buy time, focusing on my driving.

Even though I’d known my son Caleb would raise the issue some day, I hoped it wouldn’t be today.

“Daddy?”

I wonder if I can keep him at bay until we arrive home, where I can seek help from Kendra. But then, turning to him as I stop my Ford at a light, I see that Caleb’s beak is wrinkled in sadness.

“Who said that?” I ask.

“Jo-Jo and Conner.”

I bite my lip, seeming to recall them as children of an actor and a director I’ve seen in movies. Leaving the traffic light behind, I speed up and overtake a Ferrari. The pig at the wheel needs a haircut.

“They didn’t mean it,” I say. “They were just teasing you.”

“But it’s true I’m different!”

I flash my son a skeptical look. “Everybody’s different, Caleb. That’s life.”

Apparently, philosophy is of little use with eight-year-old children, as my son’s eyes grow wet and I feel like a bad parent. I slow down to stop at the block gatehouse and wave at the security guard. She nods as she flicks a switch, lifting the barrier so I can get into the private parking.

“Come on, you’re just upset,” I say, pulling over. “Nothing that a good hamburger and a cartoon can’t cure.”

I help Caleb out of the car and take his backpack, heading inside. I hope seeing his mother and smelling lunch makes him forget everything, but I’m wrong.

Caleb confronts Kendra, fists on his hips.

“Mommy, I want to know,” he says with that extreme seriousness only little kids can have. “Am I human or not?”

Kendra’s broad smile turns into a frown while she stops, the big wooden spoon sinking into the yellow pot.

“Is this your fault?” she mutters to me.

I shrug. “Mean kids at school.”

Caleb’s gaze dances from Kendra to me and back. He touches his beak, then glares at his mother’s mouth.

“I don’t look like you,” he says. “Why that?”

Kendra turns the burner off and quickly grabs a bag of chips, ripping it open in a single move.

“Come on, Caleb, aren’t you hungry?” she says, handing our son the bag of chips. “They are your favourite flavour. How wonderful!”

Caleb crosses his short arms. Kendra looks at me. If it wasn’t to preserve our son’s education, she would curse. She’d do it so loudly that George Washington would turn in his grave.

“Caleb, sit down,” I intervene. “We must talk, I agree. What about doing it after lunch?”

“You sit first.”

I sigh, pull the chair and slide on it. Kendra joins me on the other side of the table. We stare at our son, expectantly, until he seems to calm down. He sits, takes the bag of chips, and puts a handful in his beak.

“All the others look like their parents,” Caleb begins. “Tell me why I don’t!”

“But you do look—” I try, but a glare stops me.

“Caleb, honey.” Kendra slows down, carefully choosing words. “Why should that be important? We’ve always been a happy family.”

“I want to know!” Caleb shrieks.

Kendra sighs. “All right,” she says. “You must know that your father had an accident. He was not much older than you.”

Caleb flinches.

“After we married, we wanted a child more than anything,” Kendra explains. “Since we couldn’t have you in the proper sense, we found another, maybe better way. We were introduced to you.”

Caleb is still thoughtful. “You mean you are not my real parents?”

“The opposite!” I say. “We are and we will always—”

Kendra freezes me with a look. They may not look alike, but they are indeed mother and son. Both great at scolding me.

I sigh, hop off my chair, and shuffle into the patio. I look at the road, buzz in my head.

I slip my left tentacle into the front pocket of my shirt. The suction cups grab the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. I bite a cigarette and light it. I love the flavour of the smoke, even if I know it's not the original taste. It’s a shame that we could recreate everything, despite the tobacco plant.

The pig on the Ferrari passes in front of the house. Both his hooves are on the wheel, but he looks too dumb to drive. The guard steps out of the gatehouse to meet another cockroach, tall and black as she is. I’ve heard their kind can still reproduce in the traditional way—but probably, it’s just propaganda.

I glance inside our house and smile, seeing how Kendra is now hugging Caleb with her tentacles. The little palmed hands of our son barely reach the middle of her large body, but he holds her tight. I look at them and I see nothing but a family. My family.

Sometimes I wonder what the original humans would think of us. We imitate their behavior, rebuild their cities, share their values. We try to work as a society even if we’re in fact a bunch of different species with tendrils and paws, antennae and whiskers, gills and scales.

But wasn’t that the same for them, at the beginning? They, too, were split into different people for centuries, divided by language and customs. 

I guess they simply knew the secret.

Differences are irrelevant, when there is love.

About the Author

Fulvio Gatti is an Italian speculative fiction writer been writing and publishing in his native tongue for 25 years.

He has been writing in English for the global market since 2018, and his stories can be found in pro magazines, like Galaxy’s Edge, magazines and anthologies published in US, UK, Italy, and Australia.

He’s been a student of Kevin J. Anderson and Rebecca Moesta’s Superstars Writing Seminars and he is part of David Farland’s Apex Writing Group. He’s also been a panelist at Worlcon/Discon III, among other international events.

He lives with his wife on the wine hills of the Northwestern Italy, where he works as a local reporter and event organizer.

Website: <https://www.fulviogatti.it>