Inspired by Fialleril's Mothers of the Disappeared.


They say the hardest thing a parent can do is bury their child.

But what if your child is no longer yours, and you have nothing to bury?


Jesko was nearly two years old when they came for him. He was mine for one year, ten months and 28 days.

I remember every last moment so clearly.

The doorbell rang while I was cooking dinner, so I balanced the spoon I was stirring with across the pot. I walked to the door, glancing into the living room as I passed. Derick was grinning into his datapadd, pretending to ignore Hari and Jesko as they tussled at his feet. I remember catching his eye and smiling.

And then I opened the door, and two Jedi were there.

The blood tests were standard, of course. Every child in the Republic has them when they're born, and the information is filed away is some census-server on a Core planet. I'd never given it a second thought.

But Jesko had The Force, and the Jedi wanted to train him.

What can you do? It is an honour to be chosen by the Jedi, after all.

They promised that he would be cared for, his needs fulfilled, his special abilities trained so that he could serve the Republic as an emissary of peace and justice (and war, though they would never say that to a worried mother, would they?)

We agreed.

We didn't feel like we had a choice.

Hari cried as her brother was taken away. She was only five; she didn't understand.

I was thirty-five, and I didn't really understand, either.

"Please," I begged, catching the Jedi's sleeve. He turned back, expression politely interested, as though he had seen this played out a thousand times before – "Please, will he be loved?"

The Jedi had just looked at me. "All Jedi younglings are valued and cared for."

And then he was gone, taking my son with him, on their way to Coruscant.

Derick and I clung to each other and wept that night.

And the next.

And the next.

The neighbours talked about how lucky we were, what an honour it was that our child had been chosen. I tried to be brave, I really did. And I was proud, so proud of my little boy; my sweet, wonderful little boy that the Jedi wanted.

But I couldn't forget his face, looking at me over the Jedi's shoulder, eyes wide and his tiny hand reaching back towards me...

We started to fight, Derick and I. Nothing he did was good enough, suddenly. In the back of my mind, I was remembering how proud he'd been, once upon a time, telling me about some great-uncle of his who was a Jedi.

Because it was in his family, I'd lost my baby boy.

We got a divorce. The paperwork came through on what would have been Jesko's third birthday.

My son is a Jedi.

It's such an honour.

I wonder if he still remembers his mother?