Mandy

The man took a seat next to the other parents and watched his daughter play. She threw sand in the air.  She bounced on a tire. She swung on the monkey bars. He watched her, thanking god over and over that he still had Mandy, even if her mother was gone.

It had been four months since the truck. No amount of nano-surgery could restore his wife's crushed chest cavity. But Mandy was lucky. The debris that had ripped into her skull was removed and her damaged brain tissue regrown. She had a biotic eye and a skin discoloration. She would need to go in for synth adjustments every three months until she was fully grown. But she could lead a normal life. Better than normal, they told him. Part of the nano-heuristic that helped her brain regrow its tissue was now consciously manipulable. She would have an amazing memory, they said.

She ran up to him with a handful of daffodils.

“These are beautiful, honey,” he said. She smiled at him, looking so much like her mother.

“You know, these were your mother's favourites,” he said. She cocked her head, curious.

“Baby,” he said, “You remember mommy, right?” A sly childish grin was all he got.

“Mandy,” he said sternly, “Do you remember mommy?”

“Daddy,” she said, drawing out the word as if she were annoyed, “I know I have a mommy I just don't remember her. I erased the bad memories. There's nobody there. Nobody, nobody, nobody.” She sang the word to herself as as she rejoined the other children.

His heart caught in his throat. She deleted the memories of her mother. Of course she did.

He watched his five year old daughter play and wondered who she was.