It was a shame Edward never got to meet his mother. The Inventor rightfully considered his long-dead wife to be such – after all, Edward was the child that both of them had wanted for so long but never got the opportunity to have, at least until now.
After his wife's death, the Inventor became rather reclusive, hiding in his big old house day after day, growing his own food in the garden, reading from his collection of literature and – most especially – working on his machines. He had made many of them over the course of his years but now it had become his main source of comfort, something he could lose himself in doing and also something that gave him the hope that one day the child he and his wife had always longed for might become a reality.
He used his wacky machines to run a cookie factory, but by far his favourite out of all of them was a humanoid robot with a sphere for a head, an ovoid body and scissors for hands. To anyone else it would have looked much like any other droid in the factory – some had cookie cutters for feet and one had two whisks – but to the Inventor it was something much more. This particular machine was the closest thing to a human being he had ever made and he was certain that with his knowledge he could do something that anyone else would think impossible. He was going to build a human being from scratch.
After many years of hard work, using techniques perhaps no-one on earth had ever tried before, the humble robot was gradually transformed into a young man. The Inventor educated the boy using his vast library, ensuring he knew everything from etiquette to limericks, especially encouraging him with his artwork. Because of his hands (which were still the prototype scissors), Edward could not use a paintbrush. He could have placed it in his mouth if he wanted to, but he had a far greater skill when it came to using his blades to style hedges or carve wood or ice or anything he could shape. Perhaps, thought the Inventor, when he had hands he would be the next Michelangelo, for it was probable he'd be an excellent painter as well as a sculptor. He loved him like a son – and it was arguable that he was a son. He had even given him a name – Edward. He and his wife had always agreed that was the name they would choose if they ever had a baby boy.
She would have loved Edward, he knew. The boy was gentle, well-mannered and incredibly sweet. She would have taken to his good nature immediately. Edward truly felt like the son they never had – or rather, did have now, but not together.
Edward sometimes asked about his mother, whom he knew about because of the one photograph of her the Inventor kept in his bedroom. The Inventor rarely spoke about her as the past was full of so much grief and pain, but Edward was his son and he wouldn't deny him from knowing anything about the woman he loved so dearly, so whenever he asked questions he made a special effort to answer them. On occasion, when he was alone, the Inventor would speak to his wife's portrait, telling her about how their son was coming along and how close he was to finishing him.
Sooner or later, he knew the last part of Edward – his hands – would be completed. He was working on them continually, but unfortunately his health had been really declining lately. He knew his days were numbered, yet he was so close to finishing making the hands he was certain he'd finish them before he died. It was his last wish that Edward would be completed, and then he could return to his wife a happy man…