"Happy birthday, Matthew!" my mother chirped brightly, after opening the modestly carved oak door to find me on her doorstep.

"Thank you, Mother," I smiled, pulling her into an embrace.

She hugged me back, tucking her head contentedly under the base of my chin. I'd towered over her since a growth spurt I'd had at eighteen, and now she was only as tall as my shoulders. It was clear that my height and physique had been inherited from my father's side.

"Come in for a minute," she said, after enjoying the hug for a few seconds. "You're slightly earlier than we thought you'd be."

The distinctive smell of freshly picked roses reached my nose as I stepped over the threshold. I spotted the fragrant red blooms as I walked past a vase in the small entrance hall, following my mother into the family home that I'd moved out of two years previously. It was as cosy and welcoming as ever, decorated with trinkets and photos that held fond memories of my youth.

I lifted a few strands of her hair from the top of her head as we entered the lounge. Batting my hand away, she ducked out of my grasp.

"What are you doing?" she scolded in a mocking tone, grinning at me.

"It appears I'm not the only one getting older," I teased her. "I think I just found a grey hair."

"There's more than one," she confessed. "So, don't look any harder."

"When I'm standing up, all I can see is the top of your head," I responded lightly. "I don't exactly have to look hard to find them. Look, there's another one."

I moved my hand to point to the offending strand, but she backed off, laughing.

"If I knew that you were just coming over to insult me, I'd have told you to stay at home," she reprimanded me amiably. "At least you're not staying long."

"Happy birthday, son!" my father bellowed as he entered the room, arms out, and then pulling me automatically into one of his familiar bear hugs. "How does it feel to be twenty-one?"

I returned the solid embrace and he patted me on the back before letting go.

"Not much different to being twenty," I replied truthfully.

"It doesn't seem like twenty-one years since I gave birth to you," my mother reminisced, smiling. "You grew up so fast. We're so proud of the man you've become."

"That we are," my father enthused. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to be blessed with a child by the Andekas, and I couldn't be happier we were among those chosen."

I carried the reminder with me every day, since my name was a traditional name that meant 'gift from above.' My parents had wanted nothing more than to have a child and had strived to win enough favour with the Andekas to be granted their wish.

The Andekas were a large family that lived separately from the rest of us on an estate on the higher ground at the base of the mountains, known as the Kinnisvara. This great family were highly respected, partly because they circulated food, water, clothing, medicine and other necessities to the nearby towns and villages in exchange for hard work and allegiance. The work we carried out varied according to the needs of society, as well as within our skillsets and interests, and in return, we were well provided for.

We were also rewarded for our efforts with the gift of children, since the family were able to grant the ability to conceive for those that were loyal enough. Conception in our society was almost impossible without the aid of the Andekas, and many were so driven by their desire to reproduce that they would go to great lengths to be invited to the Kinnisvara so that they could be blessed with a child.

The Andekas were viewed as the 'gifted ones,' since they were the only family since the Great War to be blessed with fertility and the ability to grant it to others. Some believed it was divine intervention, while others believed the family themselves were deities. Either way, we lived a relatively peaceful life under their care.

My parents had always been extremely loyal to the Andekas family and, over two decades ago, were rewarded by being invited to the Kinnisvara to be granted fertility. Those accepting such an offer would stay within the walls of the Kinnisvara until conception had been achieved. My father was a leading member of the scientific community, and a child was conferred on my parents for his devotion to one of the genetics projects that I was beginning to now be involved in.

So, I understood why my birthday was so important to them, even if it didn't excite me to the same degree.

"Ready to go and collect your gift?" my father asked enthusiastically, breaking me from my thoughts.

"Sure," I nodded with a smile, trying to sound excited. "See you later, mother!" I added as my father and I left the house and stepped outside.

A light, warm breeze ruffled my hair slightly as my father and I began the twenty-minute walk to the transport-bus that would take us to the Mart, where I would be expected to choose my Katki.

It was a glorious autumnal Sunday morning. Leaves were turning shades of yellow and burnt umber, and sporadically fluttering from the trees that lined the streets in the village where my parents and I lived. Places that were often shaded by trees in the summer were now more exposed as winter started approaching and the shadows grew longer.

Change was in the air; I could feel it coming in more ways than just the shift in the seasons. And while I wanted to reach out and embrace it, part of me wanted to hold on to the former aspects of life that had become familiar.

I was quiet as we walked, contemplating my imminent visit to the Mart.

Although the Mart was a central hub for trading goods, the Katki were only on display there for one week in every month, which this month, happened to coincide with my birthday. They spent the remainder of their time training.

It was common knowledge that around six percent of the population was born with a defective genetic marker that made them volatile and dangerous. Many believed that the immense radiation fallout from the Great War was what had caused the mutation. Every new-born was tested to see whether they carried the specific gene sequence that would deem them at high risk of hurting others. The Katki, or the 'Broken,' were separated from the rest of society and given a medicinal treatment called Ravim that subdued them, turning them from reprobates into the perfect helpers for everyday tasks and chores.

Couples who had lost a child because of this process were immediately granted another child to replace them. Part of my father's work was around the genetic isolation of the Katki at birth, and I had been studying science and was following in his footsteps.

I knew I should be grateful for my father's intentions. Not every family had a Katki and it was considered an honour if the Andekas considered you worthy enough to be gifted with one. My father's continued devotion had earned him this privilege, and instead of taking it for himself, he was gifting the Katki to me for my birthday.

Still, it was a gift I was reluctant to accept. I mainly agreed to it to placate my parents but did so with much unease.

Part of me wondered whether their offering to me was as much about status as it was about them giving me some extra help with my domestic chores. My father had always been very proud about his position of trust with the Andekas and owning a Katki was another way of displaying our family's social position.

I hadn't spoken to either of my parents about my concerns, but the idea of it being a demonstration of social privilege didn't sit well with me.

This wasn't my only reason for my reluctance to accept his offering, though.

Just over a year ago, my closest friend Seren had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. She had named her Amanda, meaning 'deserving of love,' only to find out days later that Amanda carried the genetic markers of a Katki. Her tiny daughter had been taken to the Kinnisvara to grow up within their walls, destined to be treated with Ravim and then taken to the Mart when she was old enough to serve.

Seren had gratefully accepted another opportunity to conceive, as was customary in our culture. Outwardly she had appeared appreciative and robust, thankful that she had been granted another chance at procreation.

Except for her husband, Peter, she had spoken to nobody except me about the devastation of losing her much loved Amanda, for fear of it being perceived as being perfidious to the Andekas. She already knew I had mixed feelings about the revered family, and we knew we could speak confidentially to each other about such things without any concern of repercussions.

While, after listening to her, I had no doubt that she would love the next child just as much, I knew there would always be a gaping hole in her life where a part of soul was taken along with Amanda.

Those around us had justified Seren and Peter's loss. We were always taught that medicating the Katki was more humane than the alternative, which would be to terminate them. At least this way the Katki would have some kind of life, and have some purpose, even if it was determined by someone else.

Even so, it did nothing to ease Seren's agony, nor did it quash my reservations about 'owning' one. For me, the idea of taking someone else's child – someone like Amanda – to work for me against their will, weighed heavy on my mind.

The final reason for my reluctance to bring home one of the Katki was also the only reason my family knew anything about, and I was unprepared for my father bringing it up in conversation as we continued our stroll towards the transport-bus.

"Are you all right, son?" he started, breaking me from my thoughts. "You seem quiet."

"I'm fine." I tried to sound brighter than I felt as I replied. "I'm just enjoying the walk. I like it when the sun's out."

"It's a perfect day for selecting a Katki," he beamed happily. "I know how upset you've been since your other one died. I hope you're excited about getting a new one."

I winced at his unexpected reminder about the tragic death I'd witnessed in my own home, but hoped I successfully managed to cover it with a smile. I was far from excited, but the untimely and sudden demise of my previous Katki for no apparent reason was also one of the reasons that the Andekas had agreed to another one for my twenty-first birthday. Rejecting it would be insulting after all the sacrifices my father had made to get us into this position.

Not that I'd known what he was planning until he'd sprung it on me last week.

I knew my father rationalised that my upset was caused by the fact that I didn't have a Katki anymore. Although I was close to my family, I didn't dare reveal the truth to him, and so I went along with the charade in an attempt to survive the day.

He wasn't aware that my covert strategy was to deem all of the Katki unsuitable and return home empty-handed.

I just hoped it would work.