[ WP ] At birth , 100 simulations are run to determine the possible life of your child . In 99 different cases , your daughter dies before the age of 6 . The one where she survives , however , is a lot worse . For you .

I held Sarah in my arms as my wife wept. 
 
 `` David, this ca n't be happening. Dr. Washington, please, that ca n't be right. Please. It just ca n't,'' she rasped. 
 
 Dr. Washington looked solemn. `` I'm afraid it is, Ellen. The computer is never wrong. It's more accurate than God.'' 
 
 Ellen gasped in a breath of air and cried even harder. I just held Sarah, only a few hours old. I did n't know what to feel. I knew life was... uncompromising, but this? This? What kind of fate is this? 
 
 Ellen whipped her head at me suddenly, hate projecting from her eyes. 
 
 `` This is your fault, David! You and your fucking family!'' 
 
 Her words felt like daggers penetrating my chest. I could n't meet her eyes. Rationally, I knew there was nothing I could do about it, but I still felt guilt. It weighed on my stomach like a giant's anvil. 
 
 My daughter was doomed. Not even a day old. I could n't cry. I did n't have the capacity to. The simulations were never wrong. So, death before the age of six, or a fate worse than death. The fates of my father and older brother. 
 
 `` I do n't.... I do n't know what to do,'' I muttered. `` Ellen, please...'' 
 
 `` YOUR FAULT! I NEVER should have married you! What the fuck was I thinking!? What kind of life is that!? For her?! For US!? I'm NOT going through that again, David! I've done it twice, NOT again!'' 
 
 `` Doctor-'' 
 
 `` David, I'm sorry. Because there's a chance she'll live past six, I ca n't reach out to the Eugenics department. If it were a sure thing, then yes, that'd definitely be an option.'' 
 
 `` Eugenics? Dr. Washington, really-'' 
 
 `` It'd be fucking better, David. Do n't you fucking act like it would n't be otherwise!'' Ellen spat. 
 
 I held Sarah. Six hours old. Dead in six years, or a dying alcoholic by twenty. Just like Dad. Just like Ken. 
 
 The simulation does n't lie, but I really did n't need it. I've already lived through it twice. She'd go to treatment. Relapse, treatment, relapse. The councilors would tell us to cut contact until she got her one month chip. She'd lose weight. The smell of whiskey would pour from her pores. She'd call at all hours of the night, pleading, shouting, cursing. 
 
 `` Do n't you love me!? Help me! Please, help me if you love me!'' 
 
 `` I need some money. No, not for whiskey, I quit. They're about to turn off my electricity. I'm not slurring, shut the fuck up.'' 
 
 `` I hate you. You made me do this. It's all your fucking fault.'' 
 
 It is n't a life. It's a weight and it saps you of all the strength you have. The not-knowing is the worst. Mysterious disappearances, wounds, and worst of all, lies, become the norm. You ca n't escape it because you care. You want to help, but there's nothing you can do. You have to sit and watch the person you care about kill themselves slowly. Slow deaths are the worst because you can see the details. Every fucking one of them. You see their veins pop and redden. Weight loss. Memory loss. Behavior changes. The person you once knew does n't exist anymore. 
 
 The simulation did n't say it, but I had a good idea what the end result would be. We'd eventually find her in a cheap, crummy apartment with an unconscious boyfriend or girlfriend - another addict. And she'd be gone, asphyxiated by her own vomit, blunt force trauma from falling, or alcohol poisoning. 
 
 Just like Dad. Just like Ken. 
 
 I held Sarah and I wept.
