My bedroom hadn’t changed in the near decade since I moved out. The four poster bed with it’s floral print in one corner. With the large chifferobe in another. My desk filled with childhood pictures of a toothless me. More pictures. Daddy.

I stared at the photo of my once proud father. His beard had always been well kept. His hair never out of place. He had raised me and my brother well. You can only imagine the pain my family went through when we lost him all those years ago.

I was still a teenager when I lost my father to death’s cold hand.

We lived in tough times then. My father had been the only provider. He had a wife who loved to lavish on the finer things in life. A daughter who had plans to go to a very expensive business school, and a son who adored the newest video games.

Daniel Devins died as he lived; working to provide for his family.

With our father's death, a nightmare began to shadow our days. I had loathed my mother in those days--with the thought that she should have prepared us in advance for something like that , for we'd never been allowed to own pets that suddenly pass away and teach us a little about losing through death. Someone, some adult, should have warned us that the young, the handsome, and the needed can die, too.

How do you say things like this to a mother who looked like fate was pulling her through a knothole and stretching her out thin and flat? Could you speak honestly to someone who didn't want to talk, or eat, or brush her hair, or put on the pretty clothes that filled her closet? Nor did she want to attend to our needs. It was a good thing I had known how to fend for the three of us. In those days, I had to be strong for Marcus and my mother. It was then that I had hardened myself to the world.

We struggled in those days. Oh, how we struggled. My mother’s day job barely paid the rent. But, we got by.

They had come in droves-- all the people who loved, admired, and respected my father, and I was surprised he was so well-known.

Yet I hated it every time someone asked how he died, and what a pity someone so young should die, when so many who were useless and unfit, lived on and on, and were a burden to society. From all that I heard, and overheard, fate was a reaper, never kind, with little respect for who was loved and needed.

Especially not for Daniel Devins.

Spring days passed on toward summer. And grief, no matter how you try to cater to its wail, has a way of fading away, and the person so real, so beloved, becomes a dim, slightly out-of-focus shadow…

“Who is that, Ms. Myra?”

The robot had been standing behind me the entire time as I stood remembering my father’s death. I turned and glared at him. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“Ms. Myra, you hate me.”  He says, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. His eyes were a rich chocolate that somehow managed to convey the emotion of a man who had seen and lived a thousand years. Most robotic eyes lacked emotion and they definitely did not cry.  “I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Will you stop that?!” I demand.

“Stop what?” The robot sniffles.

“Stop...acting so human. Stop crying. Stop smiling. Stop it!”

The robot wipes at his eyes. “Crying, Ms. Myra? Is that what this is...this salty discharge leaking from my eyes?”

I crack a smile.  “Those are tears, Michael.”

“Why do these tears come, Ms. Myra? I don’t like it one bit.”

How do you explain crying  to a stupid robot?

It starts with a quivering lip. Or maybe blinking faster and faster to keep the wetness from escaping.Before you know it, you're getting teary -- again. Some  people  cry at the drop of a hat -- not to mention weddings, birthday parties, kids' school plays, and the humane society public service announcements showing those adorable dogs in need of new homes.

And then there’s me, the type who can't remember the last time I cried.

Either way, crying often catches the often-teary eyed or the usually stoic off guard -- striking at a time or place where they don't want to weep -- and others don't want to watch them weep.

“Most people cry when they’re sad, Michael.”

Michael frowned. “I’m sad.”

I look up into his tear-streaked face, and damn if my doesn’t tighten with that knee-weakening, mind blowing emotion that I’ve come to associate with him and only him.

“Why?”

“You don’t like me. Please like me. I promise to be good. I hurt so bad when you don’t like me.”

He has said this before to me. However, there is something different this time. It is  the sincerity and honesty I see reflected in those die-like brown eyes; an unspoken determination to become a better...robot...man...idk.

Oh. Michael, why do you this to me?

“I do like you, Michael.” I sigh, in resignation.

“You do?”

I nod. “I like you very much.”

“Do you love me?” He whispers.

I reach up to cup his cheeks; wiping away the tears and marveling at just how real his skin and tears feel….”If I didn’t know anymore, I would swear on my life that you were human.”

“Ahem.”

I turn, blushing heavily from my heads to my toes.

“Mother, I was just explaining to Michael--erm, the robot what tears were.”

She folds her arms across her chest in the way that only a sassy black woman could. “I saw very well what you were doing, Myra Renee--Michael, run along and go find Marcus.”

The robot--no, Michael, obeyed without protest, going quietly and quickly.

We stood staring at each other. “Mother, I know what you’re thinking.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you?”

“For Christs sake, Mother, he’s a machine. He’s not even human.” I spit out.

“And just what, Myra Renee, makes a human...human?”

I think long and hard about that one, but I have no answer to her question. Instead, I attempt to change the subject. “Mommy, I thought you were throwing Marcus a party for his birthday? If you didn’t have the money, you could have just--”

My mother looks away. “I refuse to take anymore of your money! What do you take me for? A beggar? I refuse. I know you already give me more than you can afford. I know you’re still paying off those loans. I don’t care how much that job pays.”

I go to sit on the edge of my bed. “Mommy, for once, could you just not be so stubborn. I don’t care if I never pay off my loans. I just want you and Marcus to be happy.”

Mother smiles as she gazes upon the photo of my father. “Daniel, what are we going to do with her? She’s insatiable.”

It’s like she’s forgotten I was in the room. “Mommy, I--”

“Oh honey. Don’t you understand that money is not everything. I’m happy. I have two beautiful children. A beautiful house.”

“I know, Mommy. I--”

“Are you happy, Riri?” She blurts.

I have not been happy in years, dear mother of mine.

Instead, I smile. “Yes, mother. I’m happy.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but she is interrupted by my kid brother running breathlessly into the room. “Myra,” He begins.  “The robot is bleeding.”

I laugh out loud. “Marky Mark, when have you ever heard of a robot….bleeding--”

I suddenly hear Michael yelling out in terror. “Ms. Myra. I’m crying from my nose! Help me!”

I jump and  run into my brother’s room. Michael stands helplessly as blood gushes from his nose. He is red and shaking all over. I rush over and grab one of Marcus’s shirts off his bed, holding it to Michael’s nose. “Here, hold this here.”

His hand instantly reaches up to hold the shirt to his nose. “Ms. Myra, am I dying?”

“Dying, Michael?” I laugh. “You just have a nose bleed.”

He gazes at me for a long moment. “The red stuff coming from my nose? It is not tears.”

“It’s blood, you idiot.” Marcus cackles, sauntering into the room.

I glare at my brother. “What did you to my robot?”

“I didn’t do anything.” He smirks. “Your robot here can’t handle a little boob action.”

I thought long and hard about what he could mean by that. Marcus looks pointedly at the laptop on his desk. I remember the instructions I had read.

Q: My unit walked in on me while I was changing and he got a major nosebleed and fainted. What the hell just happened?

A: He got knocked into his Flustered mode. But this is the more extreme case. Just let him rest and camp out in his room for awhile.

Well, he for sure hadn’t walked in on me naked, so…

“You showed my robot porn, didn’t you, you pervert.” I gasp.

Marcus grinned widely. “I was just showing him what it’s like to be human.”

“Idiot.” I groaned. “You knocked him into his flustered mode.”

I turned back to Michael. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, but he looked a little pale.

“How are you feeling, Michael?”

“The room is going around and around, Ms.” He said.

“What?”

Then, he collapsed.

As he fell, I let out a large groan. “I’m going to kill you, Marcus.”

“How was I supposed to know your robot would freak out?” He protested indignantly.

“Who shows a freaking robot, porn?” I hissed.

Together, we lugged Michael’s body onto Marcus’s bed. He was surprisingly light. How anything about this robot surprised me anymore was amazing.

“Don’t tell, Mother.” Marcus whispered.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Give me one good reason why?”

“It’s my birthday.”  He pleaded.

“You broke my robot!” I hiss.

“Sheesh, sis. You can have a million robots if you wanted to! You work at a place that makes them!”

“Maybe, I don’t want those robots.” I say, quietly. “Maybe, I like this one.”

He stares at me with pursed lips, before grinning widely.  “You like this robot….or do you like this robot?”

“I am not going there with you.” I say, hotly.

“Ok. ok.” He says, throwing his hands up. “It’s not like he can…” He trails off suggestively.

I raise my eyebrow. “What are you getting at, Marcus.”

Marcus wiggles his eyebrows. “He looks like a man. Talks like one too. How much of a man is he really?” Marcus waggles his hips suggestively.

It takes a second for me to understand. “OH god! You’re such a pervert, Marky Mark!” I say, laughing.

He burst into laughter too. “Hey. I’m only asking for the sake of science. Imagine, the possibilities! Little robot babies. The works.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s a freaking robot. How many times do I have to say. It’s not like I’m going to fall in love like they do in the moves. He’s not going to sweep me off my feet with how ‘different he is from other guys’ and all that jazz.”

Marcus shrugs. “It could happen.”

I give him a playful shove. “Happy birthday, little bro.”