I married an idiot. A loving idiot, I should add. Loving because even now he still makes me laugh and feel loved, visiting as a kind-hearted ghost. 

Would you like to know more about him? Of course, you do. He was your dad. 

Please, sit down. 

I hope the fire is warm to your taste. If not, feed it more kindling and bring your stool closer. My God, it’s freezingly cold. 

Anyway, like I’ve just said, the man was an idiot. He swept me off my feet, his idiocy notwithstanding. 

He put a broomstick on the door, which I crossed. After that, I became his. Forever. I’d leave him and come back for more. The broomstick worked, so it appeared, as it would on chickens. The next thing I knew I was married. My parents made lots of noise, but my heart was taken. 

Then I had you. On the day I was to tell him the good news, he came home a happy man. Usually, he was a happy man, but that evening, I swear he was a volcano about to erupt. He stormed through the door, kicked away his shoes, threw his coat onto the floor, and then shouted my name, for all the dead to hear mind you. 

I was on the couch polishing my nails. “What on earth is wrong with you, lover boy?”

He took a sightful of me, then said, “My beautiful wife, pack up.” 

“Pack up?” We’d talked on the phone an hour ago. And he didn’t mention packing up. Nor did he allude to leaving. 

“It’s honeymoon time, babe.” The man couldn’t even stop to breathe. His eyes sparkled.  He perched on the sofa and hugged me like I was a cherished thing lost and found. 

I pulled inches away from him and peered into his eyes. “Oh God, you’re drunk.”

More to the point, your dad, wasn’t drunk. He used to, but I met him and changed him to my liking. Even his ashtray went into the garbage bin. That day, he wanted us to leave. For honeymoon, of course. But to where? 

Did I tell you your dad was idiotic? I’m sure I did, but let me iterate. The man was as idiotic as they come. 

With Earth dying from the ever-worsening effects of climate change, nations attended a summit in Geneva, Germany, in which each nation was asked to think outside the box. Well, ours thought of the box and launched Operation Space, which simply outlined the need to explore the possibility of life on other planets. 

Back to your dad: here’s something else about him that I haven’t yet told you. The man was as light as a feather, so I lifted him off his feet and swayed around with him, glad that I had boiled cassava for lunch. I held him by his waist and hoisted him even higher, walking us to the bedroom. Laughing, he begged to be put down, but I couldn’t hear any of that. I asked him which city we should tour, and he said “Mars.” 

I dropped like a sack of potatoes. 

“C’mon, love. We’re going Mars!” He sat on the bed. 

“You signed the contract.” my breath burned my lungs. And my heart raced. 

“Just did.” He lowered his gaze. 

I had only two options. Strangle him to death, or walk away. I stormed out of the room, blind with rage, hot tears drenching my cheeks. 

“Lorrein, it will be all right on Mars. Besides, we’ll be saving humanity!”

I had thought we’d be going to New York. Or Paris. Any place but not allowing ourselves to be the government guinea pigs. The government had emptied its coffers to educate the citizens on Operation Space. Still, I was skeptical.

The next day, two men in fancy suits stood on the doorstep, ready to do what your dad couldn't do—drag me out of my house and into the unknown. 

So, my daughter, here we are. Everyone gone. Except us. And I don't think Earth survived the global warming