He'd watch her scale the monkey bars, and imagine her disappearing inside the cavalcade of rushed children. It was a game he liked to play, only with himself, and never for too long. She'd get anxious, otherwise. Call for him, and worry if she didn't hear his voice right away.
"Dad," Regina would whisper, though never yell. His wasn't a child who could scream, and wake the dead. His was a child who barely dared tread across the pavement, for fear of angering the boogeymen that lurked inside the cracks. It was him taught her about the boogeymen, and despite her mother's protests, he was proud.
"I grew up with the boogeymen, and I didn't turn out so bad," he'd told Christine. And of course, she'd scoffed. Shaken her head, but in the end said nothing. Because that's not what marriage was about, at least not theirs. Theirs was a union of compromise, of grit and survival. Pulling through the worst of it, because you were by now too far gone to turn back.
"Here, Reg."
And he knew that wasn't what she was asking, yet it was the only question he could answer. Because he didn't quite know to tell her where he'd gone the moment before. And he didn't need to. Sometimes, it was enough knowing you had someone to get back to.
He'd watch her swinging on the monkey bars. Their own private little zoo. When Regina was small, he would sit opposite her on the see-saw, make-believe he was still a child. But then, Regina had grown, and the absence inside the park had grown too loud for her to ignore. Now, Regina contained herself only to the swings she knew she could conquer alone. The rest, she walked by, her head high, though none too proud. Shoulders slumped forward ever so lightly, yet enough for him to make out, as he trailed behind her. He was, after all, her father, even if he no longer knew how to act like it.
Regina was nine. She was the last child to be born on this Earth, before the last capsule had launched into space, leaving the three of them behind forever. Not a day went by when he regretted it, yet there were moments he wished his daughter might have someone to play with. Christine, who'd always been the visionary out of the two of them, had, in Regina's early days, suggested they might drown her.
"It would be painless," she'd said, and that hadn't been honest. Naturally, there would be pain. But he knew what Christine meant - that the pain would only last a moment. A mercy, she'd called it. Sometimes, when he watched Regina scaling the monkey bars, he almost thought he knew what she'd meant. But of course, he hadn't then. back then, Regina had been four, and her father had refused to drown her. Yet he couldn't very well drown Christine, either, so in his youth, he'd condemned her to a fate infinitely worse.
He'd bundled Regina into their then-still-working Chevy, and driven away in the early dusk, while Christine was gone on a provision run. Not out of fear that she might drown their daughter, but because he worried that she might someday soon talk him into doing it.
"It's just us now," he'd told Regina, when she'd finally broken her demure silence and asked. And between the two of them, that had been that. What he hadn't known at the time was that in leaving behind Christine, he'd also discarded his mantle as a father. Standing here now, it seemed to him he no longer knew the child on those monkey bars.
And that raising her had always been a fool's errand. But then, he remembered they'd had little alternative. Between choosing to raise his child as he had, and not raising her at all, each time, he chose the former. It was, he knew, a selfish choice, yet every time, he made it, without second thought. Try as he might, he couldn't picture a life for himself not being Regina's father, and the capsule captain had made it clear - there would be no children under the age of six on his ship.
"There's simply too many up there."
The rules had been clear, ever since the project had first been developed. And though they knew it would be wise to stop procreating while they still had time to raise them, they never learned. Because as a last ditch attempt to counter the draconian yet necessary laws being imposed on it, humanity assumed the Ethera project would never become complete. They didn't need to stop just now, because look, Ethera was still a long way from being finished. A good five years, even the top experts claimed, so there'd be plenty of time for their offspring to reach maturity and board the capsules waiting to take them toward a better life.
And then, one day, it was announced that Ethera would begin boarding early next week, and all the pregnant mothers had slashed their bellies. Or taken a pill that promised to murder their young, before they had time enough to grow fond of them. In different times, they might've loved them, but there was no room on Ethera for young life. As for Earth, there was too much of old for it to keep being hospitable.
Those who didn't meet the criteria in the six months it would take to fully board would either be left behind, or shot in the head. Whichever they felt was easier.
Perhaps if he and Christine had had other children, the choice might've been easier. Many of their acquaintances had chosen the sacrifice of the few to the welfare of the many. Yet he and Christine only had Regina. Six months old, and nowhere near the six year mark she would've needed to board. Several times over the next few months, they'd considered smothering her. Nothing but a moment of pain. It was usually the prospect of going forth toward a barren future that usually stayed their hand. So that, when Regina turned one year old, they'd taken her to witness the last capsule shooting off into space. And they'd drunk cheap dollar champagne, and wobbled their way home, for there was no one left around to stop them.
It was also because of this memory that he'd bundled their daughter inside the car, three years later, and left Christine behind in the dust. Deep down, he understood that circumstances had been different. When the last capsule had left, they'd promised each other they'd somehow make it work together on this Earth. That hers would be a much different childhood, though none less happy than theirs had been. But for her future, neither parent could afford to speak, for they knew they'd be dead and gone, and hers would be a sadness that neither of them could ever hope to know.
"Time to go now, Reg."
On his good days, he liked to tell himself he'd shoot her before that day could come. Spare the loneliness her mother had wanted to escape all those years before. As always in their marriage, Christine had been the wise one. She'd guessed, even before his mind could fathom, that their child would grow up sad and lone. He hadn't, and now it fell to him to bear the consequences.
On his best days, he even managed to believe it. That he could now fill the role of strong parent, the one he'd so carelessly and selfishly dispossessed. Once. When he still thought fathering would be easy.
The End.
Inspired by 
