Reflection

Sometimes a lie is what we need to find the truth.

My father was not a man of great stature or renown, but in our small apartment in Moscow, he loomed larger than life. I remember his eyes. They would sparkle with the fervor of a true believer as he spoke of the stars, his hands gesturing as if to grasp them. The space program had been his kingdom. A place where he could chase the impossible. But as the twilight of the Soviet era drew near, my father changed.

I was too young then to understand the gravity of his despair, but I could sense it festering within him. The animated storyteller became a brooding figure, shadowed by thoughts he dared not share. His fragile frame stooped over his desk and scribbled furiously across loose pages long into the night. I held his hand as the last rocket lifted off, his probe nestled within its hull.

The launch marked the death of a dream. I saw my father cry for the first time that day, his tears a rare glimpse into a heart hidden behind calculations and theories. But when the probe’s signal was lost as it approached Jupiter, my father said nothing. He didn’t even appear surprised. His final creation, lifeless and adrift, was left to wander alone through the coldness, a silent testament to ambitions unfulfilled.

We emigrated to America when I grew older, but my father’s mind remained distant. He often mused that space, like all great quests, demanded a prize worthy of the journey — whether it be for God, glory, or gold. “But there’s nothing out there worth bringing back,” he would say. “And any glory would be temporary; a triumph only ends the very challenge that gave it meaning.” In his eyes, the collapse of the Soviet space program had taken NASA with it. All that remained was God.

I was destined to work in aerospace; I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. A rocket and shimmering stars danced above my bed at night, whisking me off to sleep. I awoke at NASA. Before long, I was leading a team, and then a department. My father was old now, worn down and stretched thin. I’d tell him about my work — his work, really — but each time my father’s eyes would deepen, drifting to some place I couldn’t follow. Our conversations grew strained, words turning sharp and brittle. It was as if something inside him had withered away, leaving only silence. The stars had left him.

And then the day came. The discovery of life on Europa, a cold and distant moon of Jupiter.

This was a waking dream for us both. Before the public release hit the news, I raced to tell my father. I wanted to be there to see his face, to see that old fire in his eyes again. He nearly fell out of his bed when I burst through the door.

“It’s real! We found life on Europa!”

“Europa?” he repeated, his voice tense as he slowly sat up. “What did you find?”

“Extremophiles. Remains of ancient bacteria, likely feeding off hydrothermal vents deep below the surface, and blown across the icy landscape by an impact. And they look like Earth’s microbes — this could prove panspermia. The president is announcing it tomorrow. This changes everything!”

He went still, his face growing pale. “Are you certain?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. It’s confirmed. We have proof of life beyond Earth.”

He closed his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. “No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning. “This is it. This is exactly what we’ve been searching for.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and resolve. “Before I speak, you have to promise me,” he said, his voice grave. “Promise me you’ll keep what I’m about to say a secret. You must never tell anyone.”

I stared at him, confused and a bit unsettled by the intensity in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Promise me,” he insisted, gripping my arm with surprising strength. “Swear to me you’ll keep this to yourself. This has to stay between us.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. I nodded slowly. “I promise, father.”

He let out a shaky breath, his grip loosening. “The life you found on Europa,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “it is not alien. It’s from Earth. I left it there.”

I froze, my mind racing. “What are you saying?”

“Decades ago, when everything was falling apart, I reprogramed the last probe with my own plans. I stowed that life aboard, and I crashed it into Europa,” he confessed. “I was a younger man; I was desperate. I wanted to give humanity a reason to look up again, to feel wonder. We were losing our will to explore, to dream.”

“They’re talking about a United Nations space program — lives, tax-payer dollars... for what?” I stammered. “When they show the images...”

“What they’ll see is only a reflection,” he interrupted firmly, his sadness giving way to a fierce resolve. “But what matters is what they’ll do. Sometimes a lie is what we need to find the truth.”

I stood there, stunned, the weight of his confession pressing down upon me. He looked forward, his eyes pleading. “You promised,” he said softly. “You must carry this burden now. You must keep this secret.”

I gripped the side of his bed. “They want me to lead the exploration effort. To Europa and beyond. I can’t do this…you’re my father.”

He looked at me with a deep, weary sorrow. "Space isn't for the faint-hearted. It's a perilous journey. My generation lost its way before it really began, distracted by the trivial and fleeting. We let the flame flicker and die. We must leave this planet before it becomes our tomb — not in death, but in a malaise of endless nostalgia and complacency. We must explore not just to survive, but to live. Space is more than a physical journey; it’s a spiritual quest for answers to the big questions. The material alone could never muster the resolve for such a task.”

“I don’t understand,” I choked.

“The alien makes us feel all the more human. Only such a profound and terrifying mystery is enough to take us to new worlds for good. Life out there in all that cold, waiting for us.” He continued, “I didn’t intend for it to be you…”

"So," I cut in sharply, "to chase our dreams, I have to champion a lie. Or I must betray my own father and turn my back on this chance I’ve been working my entire life for. What you've done is nothing but vanity," I lashed out.

I thought for a moment more, feeling the enormity of the promise I had made and the consequences of breaking it. “I don’t yet understand, father, but I’ll keep your secret.

A sad smile flickered on his lips. He knew I would never look at him the same. “Good. That’s good.” He leaned back, and turned to face the night sky. “To call the stars home, we must also embrace the dark, uncaring cold that surrounds them.” We sat silent for a time, then I left without a word. Set adrift by the actions of a zealot.