May 28, 2067

I’m always told I’m a spitting image of Mom from when she was my age. I never really believed it until my friend asked me how

I got to visit a chocolatier. I was confused until I noticed her pointing to one of the only framed pictures we have in the house.

It was taken when Mom was a teenager. She was in a store- Ghirardelli, I think, or Lindt, whatever those were- one time while

on vacation. I don’t know who took the picture; Mom says it was an old friend, but they haven’t talked in years.

I haven’t looked at the picture in a while; I guess because it’s been in the house since before I was born, I’m just used to it taking up

space. But after my friend left, I sat on the couch looking at it for a while. I really do look like she did. I almost can’t understand it. Looking at

that picture, I don’t see any of Dad in me, and that makes me a little sad.

When he explained his disease to me, he needed to explain what genetics were. What a weird thing to be a part of. Here I am with all of

the dominant genes- dark hair, dark eyes, right handed. And I look at Dad and see only the recessive; he’s a lefty, he’s got light hair, and his eyes

are gray, although he says they were once blue and the sun drained the color.

I’ve only seen one picture with that explosion of color. It was of him graduating high school. He told me his parents thought it a miracle he made

it that far. I guess high school was a tough time on him with his lungs. He looks so happy in his cap and gown. And those eyes seem to be sparkling.

But the picture isn’t hanging where it used to. I don’t know who took it down or where it is anymore. And I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.

He came home today looking completely defeated. I was in my room, and he actually knocked, and I knew immediately that something was wrong.

He sat on my bed with his back to me.

“Dad? What is it?”

“Everything is gone to shit, Ced,” he sighed.

I’ve never seen him so upset. It was quiet and muggy in the room, like the morning fog after a late night rain.

“What has?”

“Did you read the news?” He looked at me. I raised my eyebrows; I hadn’t gotten any notifications about anything too important, just sports

scores or politics. He must have read that in my eyes. “Maison Cailler sent out an interim newsletter. It looks like all the work that has been done on

the chocolate frontier has been for nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

This is what he meant:  

For years, there have been scientists whose job it was to find a way to make chocolate immune to the various diseases that were killing it off.

There were three main ones: Witches Broom, Frost Pod Rot, and Black Pod. Because climate change forced cacao growers to grow in smaller areas,

the plants were closer than they should have been, and these diseases became more prevalent in the cacao. As they were killing the plants faster than

it was cured, the plant was wiped out in nature in 2053.

Scientists gathered what they could before that and continued to grow cacao plants in labs under specific circumstances, so that they had enough

to experiment on. They figured the only way to save the plant was to fuck with the genetics, so that is what has been going on for the past 14 years.

When the news came out a couple of weeks ago that there was a breakthrough, everyone got excited. Apparently, they were so confident they had stupidly

put half of their New! Genetically Modified Super Cacao Plants™  back into their natural habitat, back in the soil they took the saplings from just to prove

they had solved the world’s biggest problem.

And what happened?

Exactly what killed the plants in the first place. It took a little longer than it used to, but the excited farmers still watches as their plants rotted and died.

And they could do nothing about it.

“They said everything was figured out. I don’t understand where all of it went wrong.” He buried his face in his hands. I watched as his shoulders began to shake.

“Dad, it’s going to be okay,” I said, sitting forward and placing my hand on his back. “It’s just chocolate.”

He didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. I counted the seconds with the sharp breaths he was taking. They soon turned into coughs, and I

waited as the episode played itself out. Then he sat up and wiped at his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Cedra. I wish I could have done more for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I met your mother, I asked all the doctors I could about how to fix this problem. How to get rid of this goddamn cough. Do you know what they

said to me?”

I didn’t reply, already knowing the answer.

“They told me nothing could be done about it. They told me there is research in progress, but that right now, they couldn’t help me.” He stopped

and started coughing again. I got up and got him a glass of water from the bathroom when the coughing stopped. He held the glass in a quivering hand.

“I used to ask myself why I had to be born with this stupid thing.”

“It’s a genetic disease, Dad. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But look at what’s happening in the world. Here I am dying of freaking Cystic Fibrosis, and it seems that saving chocolate is more important than

saving a dying man.”

“Dad-”

“How long did it take them to almost bring chocolate back from the dead? Fourteen years? And how long have people been suffering from this-

this- genetic monstrosity? It just doesn’t make sense.” He tried to take a sip of the water, but a stray cough forced his hand to tip. “I’m sorry, Cedra.”

“Do I need to get Mom? I can go get her.”

“No. No no, please. She doesn’t need to see this. I don’t need her thinking I’m worse off than I am.” His voice was ragged at this point, his throat dry.

I watched him for a moment, too scared to reach toward him. What was I scared would happen? That he’d blow away the next time I breathed?

When I finally did, he leaned into me. He started to chuckle.

“How the hell do I tell her about the chocolate? And just after her birthday!”

That made me laugh, too. But maybe I laughed out of awkwardness. He had never been so forward with me about his plight. And I knew it was

getting worse. Why else wouldn’t he want me to get Mom at such a bad moment? So she wouldn’t worry? Does it matter that now I’m worried?