Somewhere in the heart of our nation’s capital, a butler rolled a small silver tray into a poorly-decorated room. On it lay a small cake, adorned with a tiny candle. A Slovenian former model brushed her blowout to the side, pursed her lips, and exhaled, extinguishing its tiny flame. “Happy birthday to me,” Melania Trump whispered to herself. “Happy birthday,” she repeated, passing a manicured hand over the soft hair of her child, Barron, who prostrated himself at her feet, “to me.”
Earlier that morning, her lady-in-waiting brought in a card: “To wife,” it read. “Birthday.”
Looking out the window, across the green velvet spread of the South Lawn, her gaze fell upon the oak tree she recently planted in the company of the man she chose to spend her life with—for avarice, convenience, or love, she couldn’t quite tell anymore—and thought wistfully about the grand adventure she had embarked upon.
What a whirlwind the past year had been—strange, surreal, chaotic. A prison of her own design. A hell that she had chosen without being aware, at least not fully, of its consequences. As a Taurus, Melania’s steadfast determination to sit solidly in her mess was a given. Change does come not easy; still, Melania learned more and more about herself every day. How easy it is to fake it—how simple to pretend to inhabit your body when really, right before that night in 2016, a group of students at MIT, paid handsomely and discreetly, had provided her with a tractor trailer full of robots; all smooth, plasticine skin and steadfast, unblinking eyes.
“Melania is no more,” she told herself that night.
As the sun broke through the blinds, Melania, barefoot in a peignoir, moved toward the chamber where these robots were stored, ready to select one to do her day’s bidding. Barron whimpered. It always scared him when he saw Other Mama’s system power on; it was a grating electronic scream, rising in intensity. The two mothers struck terror into his young heart, indistinguishably mechanical, but only one warm to the touch.
“Don’t be frightened, my sweet boy,” Melania murmured, her voice devoid of emotion, feeling, or affect. She turned her gaze to the face staring back at her; her face. A secret kept between them. “Today is a new day. I am strong.”