“Why don’t you have a photo of me on your desk?” I rummage through the clutter of genome charts and chromosome models.
The starched white lab coat crackles as my mother, an eminent genetic engineer, raises her eyes from a microscope.
“You’re recorded in my notebooks. No need to see you framed.”
A bookcase contains her leather-bound notebooks, Volumes 1 to 20, one for each year of my life…the scientific formulae for my existence.
I am her lauded creation—a perfect human female—result of her own genetically modified egg being fertilized by her latest critically acclaimed achievement…
Artificial sperm.
The starched white lab coat crackles as my mother, an eminent genetic engineer, raises her eyes from a microscope.
“You’re recorded in my notebooks. No need to see you framed.”
A bookcase contains her leather-bound notebooks, Volumes 1 to 20, one for each year of my life…the scientific formulae for my existence.
I am her lauded creation—a perfect human female—result of her own genetically modified egg being fertilized by her latest critically acclaimed achievement…
Artificial sperm.
