Adea cried out for the hundredth time, nearing exhaustion as another contraction wracked her body. Such pain . . . shooting through her again and again . . . she feared the twins were refusing to enter the world separately.

Push, Adea, push,” encouraged the doctor, who was also her father.

Squeezing her mother’s hand and that of her friend, Helia, on the opposite side of the bed, Adea leaned forward and, with another scream, tensed every muscle and bore down hard, determined to bring her baby into the world. Suddenly, a baby’s angry cry filled the room. With an exhausted smile, Adea leaned back to catch her breath. She was thankful the pain had eased slightly, even though she knew it was only temporary. Her mother gently brushed Adea’s sweaty hair from her face and wiped her forehead with a damp towel. The cool cloth felt good against her skin, and she closed her eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” said her father, gazing up at them with a happy but surprised expression. They all looked at him expectantly, but he returned his attention to the newborn. Her mother moved to the end of the bed. When she saw the child, her hand went to her mouth in surprise, but she did not utter a word.

After he had clamped and cut the umbilical cord, her father stood and proudly held his granddaughter up in two hands for everyone to see. She was a healthy baby girl, with pink skin, blue eyes, and . . . gold wings.

“She’s a Golden,” he said with a broad grin. “My granddaughter is a Golden.”

Adea stared at the soft, golden wings in amazement.

Everyone on Caelum had wings. Everyone. Adea’s were white like her mother’s. Her father and her husband, Leander, had beautiful multi-colored wings. But gold wings were extremely rare.

Adea had not known happiness like this before. It was even greater than she expected. This baby was part her and part Leander. She felt an overwhelming maternal urge to love and protect the little life she’d just brought into the world.

Suddenly, Adea’s face twisted in pain, and she leaned forward and let out another cry as the contractions grabbed hold of her again. She gripped Helia’s hand for support as her mother took the baby girl from Adea’s father.

This is good, Adea,” said her father. “Your baby boy is ready to join his sister in the world. Push child, push!”

“I can’t, Papa, I can’t,” she said in a strained voice, talking through the pain.

His voice lowered. “You have to, Adea.”

She shook her head resolutely. “I can’t, I can’t,” she said, her voice full of anguish. She fell back against the pillow as the contractions eased, buried her face in her hands, and began to sob.

“You’re past the hardest part, child,” he said, trying to encourage her. “The second baby should be easier.”

“No,” said Adea, shaking her head, then looking up at her father through tear-filled eyes. “Once he’s born, I’ll lose him forever.”

Understanding crossed her dad’s face. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

  Adea’s mother handed Helia the baby girl, then sat on the bed next to her daughter and put her arms around her. Adea leaned against her mother, wishing for the feeling she had as a child when her mother held her, that everything would be okay.

But it will never be okay, she thought.

She had known giving up her son would be hard, but after seeing the daughter she’d just brought into the world, how could she ever let him go? Wasn’t it her job to love him, too, to protect him? She felt as though her heart were breaking.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she said, as if pleading for someone to tell her she could keep her boy. “I’m his mother. He should be with me. It’s my job to protect him.”

“My dear child, I’m so sorry,” her mother said. “The best way you can protect him is to let Helia carry him to Earth. It’s the only way.”

Adea shook her head and started to protest again, but the contractions returned. She shot forward as the pain gripped her. Her mother squeezed her hand between her palms. “This boy will always be a part of you, Adea, but you must be strong now and let him go. It’s the most loving thing you can do for him.”

“You must push, Adea,” said her father. “He needs to come out.”

Adea steeled herself and began pushing, crying out each time the contractions returned. Finally, after another fifteen minutes, she felt all the pressure and pain leave her body, and she heard the cry of her newborn son.

Her father cleaned him, then raised him slightly so Adea could see him.

Just as the ultrasound had indicated, he’d been born without wings. According to the laws of Caelum, he was a Turpe, a disgrace, an abomination. A decree had been issued millennia ago requiring that a government-authorized physician monitor every pregnancy. If any fetus was found to be a Turpe, the pregnancy was to be terminated.

Since the Great Relocation and the subsequent Turpe Decree thousands of years ago, which made it illegal to give birth to a Turpe, Caelumites had been forced to terminate countless pregnancies. The majority of Caelum’s population believed that the Turpe Decree was wrong, but their society was a millennia-old caste system that seemed to be reinforced by the universe itself, so they didn’t rebel. They couldn’t rebel.

It was only because Adea’s father was a government physician—and her husband was First Watcher—that they’d been able to spare the boy’s life. Helia would now smuggle him to Earth, where Leander would find a couple who would love and care for him. Her family had known this was a possibility and had planned for it before Leander left for his assignment on Earth almost seven months ago.

Everyone in the room knew the risks of carrying a Turpe to term. Adea and anyone who helped her would be imprisoned and have their wings blunted, never to fly again, an unthinkable fate for most people. Still, the baby’s fate would be worse. He would be euthanized.

For this reason, only her parents and Helia had known Adea was carrying twins. Their plan had been simple: wait until Adea’s father could determine whether or not she was carrying a Turpe before they let anyone know she was pregnant. They’d been surprised when they learned she was carrying twins and even more shocked to learn they were fraternal, a healthy girl with wings and a boy without, a Turpe. Twins were extremely rare, so they adjusted their plan. They would let a few friends and neighbors know she was pregnant, and before she got too far along, she’d go stay with her parents. Once she delivered, she would return home, and everyone would assume she’d only had one child, the girl. The boy would be smuggled to Earth, where his lack of wings would be normal.

Adea lay back against the pillows while her parents swaddled the babies. She stared through the transparent ceiling, the red sky of the Caelum summer sunset blurred by her tears. The utilitarian, metal walls of her childhood bedroom now seemed to her to be a metaphor for the cold world in which she lived, a world where her innocent little boy was considered an abomination unfit to live.

Her parents' home was a typical working-class house on Caelum, full of cutting-edge technology but somewhat sterile, with little decor. It was designed with only functionality in mind and little regard for aesthetics. It wasn’t that Caelumites couldn’t recognize beauty or even create it; they just didn’t consider it essential. Their society prioritized conformity, uniformity, and utility.

Adea and Leander’s home was much more inviting, thanks to the influence of his time spent on Earth. She knew through Leander’s descriptions and the mementos he brought back from Earth that things were very different there, and now she considered that her boy might have a more fulfilling life on Earth.

Why am I thinking of this as a choice? There is no choice. He has to go, she thought sadly.

Her father brought both babies, swaddled tightly in blankets, to her and gently placed one in each of her arms. She kissed each one on the forehead, the boy opening his eyes and sleepily closing them again.

Helia sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the twins, the boy’s blue eyes open and clumsily trying to focus on her face. He had worked his right hand out of his swaddling, fingers closed tightly, resting against his cheek.

“They’re so beautiful,” she said. She touched the boy’s hand, and he latched onto her pinky finger, gripping it tightly before sleepily closing his eyes again.

“Leander and I didn’t have time to discuss names before he had to go,” Adea said, looking at Helia. “Will you please tell him I named our daughter Aurum?”

“Of course,” replied Helia, gently wiping away the tears from Adea’s cheeks. “That’s beautiful. Leander will love it.”

“As for him,” Adea continued, raising her arm a little, indicating the boy. “Ask Leander to give him an appropriate name for Earth.”

Helia nodded. “Anything else you want me to tell him?” she asked.

“Please tell him I’m sorry and know he’ll do what’s best for our boy.”

“I will,” said Helia.

Adea gently eased forward so she could extend her wings, then gently folded them about the sleeping infants. She closed her eyes and focused on the feel of her babies in her arms. They all sat in silence for a while.

Eventually, Helia stood up, and Adea knew it meant the time had come. She unfolded her wings, and her mother took Aurum so Adea could say goodbye to her son. Tears ran down Adea’s face and fell onto the infant’s forehead as she kissed her boy goodbye. “I’m sorry I can’t keep you here with me, little one,” whispered Adea. “But I will always love you. Take him,” she said to Helia, lifting the infant. “Please take him!” she said again in a loud, broken voice and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Helia took the bundle in her arms, turned with tears in her eyes, and walked out the door without looking back. They all knew Adea would never see her son again.