She never glowed. I always have to explain this to people. She worked, she loved, she died. She was gray the whole time. But even I checked for luminescence, after we knew about her “radiation poisoning”. I would be up late at night, as children of doomed mothers often are, and I would walk to their bedroom to peak in. There was no glow.
Once I caught them making love, two esteemed scientists struggling with their work. I could feel the equations of pleasure, pressure, limited time and loss. She was crying. She stroked his face. She wished for uniform flesh instead of his beard. I remember they were wearing glasses. I think he worked it right. She began to moan, but she never glowed.
She was cold, she was gray but I never held it against her. She was a scientist, she was as loving a mother as she could be.