The science room was silent from one second to the next, as if someone had turned off the sound of the world. Thirty pairs of eyes were staring at the same person: a twelve-year-old girl, dark-skinned, with braids full of colored beads and a NASA T-shirt that was a little too big. Her name was Mariana Ales and at that moment she felt that the ground could open up under her feet and swallow her whole.

“Liar,” was heard from the background, in a whisper that hurt more than a scream.

Mariana pressed the folder she was carrying to her chest. Inside were printed photos, cutouts, small diagrams that I had drawn the night before with all the care in the world. She had arrived at that school just three weeks earlier, when her mother was transferred to NASA’s research center in Atlanta, and since then she had barely said more than two sentences in a row in class. But that day, during the activity on “my parents’ profession,” I had mustered up the courage to raise my hand and stand up.

“My mom is Dr. Jade Ales,” he had said, his voice trembling a little. She is an astrophysicist and project manager for NASA’s Artemis mission. He’s working on propulsion systems to get humans back to the moon… and then, to Mars.

Some laughed quietly, as if she had told a joke.

The science teacher, Mrs. Diana Porter, looked at her for a long second. She was a woman in her forties, her hair pulled back in a bun as tight as her expression. He put the pen down on the desk, crossed his arms and smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was a tired, condescending smile, one of those that make you feel small without having to raise your voice.

“I appreciate your creativity, Mariana,” he said, emphasizing the word. But this is an exercise in real professions. Not about science fiction.

The giggles grew louder. Mariana felt her cheeks burn.

“I’m not inventing,” he whispered. My mom really works at NASA.

The teacher sighed exaggeratedly, as if the girl had just wasted precious time.

“Look, honey, I’m sure your mom has a respectable job. But let’s face it: Black women don’t lead missions at NASA. It’s a very nice story, yes, but… too ambitious, don’t you think?

That phrase stuck in Mariana like a knife. It wasn’t just that they didn’t believe him; It was the certainty with which the teacher said “black women don’t…” as if there were an invisible rule in the universe that dictated it.

Behind those words was something bigger than skepticism. It was as if someone was trying to erase his mother from the place he had worked so hard to conquer. And, by the way, to tell her, Mariana, that no matter how much she dreamed of stars, her place would never be heaven.

What Professor Porter didn’t know, what no one in that room really knew—not even Mariana herself—was that at that very moment a gray pickup truck was parking in front of Riverside School. And that a woman was going to get out of it with a navy blue blazer, a NASA T-shirt and a look capable of changing forever not only that morning, but the way many would see the future.

---

Mariana returned to her seat almost without feeling her legs. Each step weighed on him as if he were walking on the surface of a planet with three times the gravity. She wanted to cry, but she clung to the phrase her mother always repeated to her: “You can cry, yes. But never because of what others think of you.”

His eyes blurred anyway.

Around him, whispers came and went like little storms: “Did you really say your mom is going to send people to the moon?” “Look at her braids, I’m sure she only saw one movie and that’s it.” “NASA… yes, of course.”

Professor Porter continued with the activity as if nothing had happened.

“Well, who’s next?” He asked, without looking at Mariana. You, Ethan?

Ethan, a red-haired boy who always sat near the window, began to get up nervously… but he did not get to his feet. The classroom door opened with a soft creak, and Principal Adriel Wilson’s voice interrupted the class.

“Excuse the interruption, Mrs. Porter.

Heads turned in unison. Accompanying the director was a woman of average height, with skin the same tone as Mariana’s, with elegantly braided hair. He wore a dark blue blazer over a black T-shirt with the NASA logo and held a silver briefcase in one hand. In the other, a folder with the insignia of a space mission.

Mariana took a second to recognize her. His brain was so busy trying to hold back tears that he didn’t immediately process what his eyes saw.

Until the woman smiled, in that way that only a mother knows how to smile at her daughter, even from afar.

Mum.

Mariana’s heart jumped so big that, for a moment, she forgot about the embarrassment, the laughter and the words of the teacher.

“Class,” announced the principal, visibly proud, “I am pleased to introduce you to our special guest today. This is Dr. Jade Ales, a NASA astrophysicist and project manager for the Artemis mission.

The silence was so absolute that you could have heard a pin drop. Or, if anyone dared to imagine it, the distant echo of a rocket taking off at Cape Canaveral.

Professor Porter paled. His eyes went from Dr. Ales to Mariana, and from Mariana back to the doctor, as if trying to solve an impossible equation in his head.

Jade, for her part, had noticed her daughter right away, too: her flushed cheeks, the restrained gleam in her eyes, the way she pressed the empty folder to her chest. He recognized that expression. It was the mixture of anger, shame and helplessness that she herself had felt as a child… and also as an adult, more times than she would have liked.

But he took a deep breath. I was there as a professional. And now I understood it, also as something else.

“It’s a pleasure to be here with you,” he said, placing himself in the center of the room. I’m very excited to talk to you about my work at NASA and the future of space exploration.

Her voice was firm, clear, accustomed to speaking in front of auditoriums full of scientists. But this time, as he pronounced each word, his eyes sought out Mariana, as if silently saying, “I’m here. I see you. And I believe you.”

“We were just talking about professions, Dr. Ales,” Professor Porter stammered, with a tense smile that threatened to break. And… well, Mariana was telling us… hey… something about you.

Jade turned to the class, interested.

“Oh, yes?” He asked softly. And what was Mariana saying?

An awkward silence spread through the room. Professor Porter opened her mouth, but no sound came out. That’s when Ethan, the red-haired boy, raised his hand shyly.

“The teacher said Mariana was inventing,” she blurted out, suddenly. That black women don’t lead missions at NASA.

No one breathed for an eternal second.

Jade didn’t change her expression. He did not raise his voice. He just nodded, as if he’d expected something like this all his life.

“I understand,” he said at last, with a calmness that only half concealed how fast his heart was beating. So today we are going to have two classes: one of science… and another of respect.

He opened his briefcase carefully and pulled out several scale models of spaceships, some laminated diagrams and a tablet.

“But first,” he added, looking at the director, “if you will allow me—” I would like to ask someone very special to me for help. Mariana, would you like to come here ahead and help me with the presentation?

Mariana froze. Part of her wanted to hide under the desk. Another part, much smaller but stubbornly insistent, felt something different. A spark. A new pride, still shy, but which was beginning to push outwards.

He got up slowly. He felt the gazes fixed on his back, but this time he let them fall, one by one, as if they were bouncing.

When he reached the front, Jade held his hand for a second. It was a brief gesture, almost imperceptible to others, but for Mariana it was like a hug in the middle of the hurricane.

For the next twenty minutes, mother and daughter talked about orbits, gravity, why astronauts don’t “fall” into space, and how a propulsion system works. Jade displayed the images on the projector; Mariana moved the models, explained in her own words things that she had been hearing at home for years: escape velocity, specific thrust, the dream of building more efficient rockets to go further while using less fuel.

At first, some colleagues looked at everything with suspicion. But little by little, curiosity won out. The hands went up. The questions began to pour in.

“Are we ever going to live on Mars?”

—How do astronauts sleep?

“How long does it take for a rocket to reach the moon?”

Mariana answered more and more confidently. His voice no longer trembled.

At one point, Jade projected a photo of herself next to a huge propulsion module, surrounded by other scientists.

“This photo,” she explained, “was taken three months ago, when I was appointed director of propulsion systems for the Artemis mission. A position that, according to some people, he could never occupy.

He did not name names. I didn’t need them. Professor Porter shrank a little in her chair, as if she wanted to disappear.

“At NASA,” Jade continued, “we don’t judge people by the color of their skin, their gender, or their age, but by their ability to solve problems. That’s the basis of science: the tests, the data, the work. Not prejudice.

Then he looked at the teacher.

“Mrs. Porter, you teach science. Do you agree that science is based on facts?

The teacher swallowed.

“Yes… of course.

“So maybe today we have all learned something important: the difference between skepticism and prejudice. Skepticism invites us to ask questions and investigate. Prejudice leads us to dismiss reality before we even look at it. And that, in science… it is a serious mistake.

Director Adriel nodded seriously.

“And in education too,” he added. I think some of us will have a lot to talk about after class.

Mariana listened to everything with a wild heart. Not only because her mother was defending her, but because something inside her was repositioning. As if a planet that had been slightly deviated from its orbit was gradually returning to the right path.

---

In the days that followed, the story spread throughout Meadview like a comet streaking across the dark sky. There were those who defended Professor Porter, saying that she was “just being realistic.” Others, indignant, asked that she be expelled for what she had said to Mariana.

As the adults argued, the hallways of Riverside School were filled with murmurs, curious looks, and shy questions. Some colleagues approached Mariana to ask for forgiveness. Others, simply, to ask him more about rockets.

Amid all that noise, director Adriel sent an email to Jade. The school would organize, almost unexpectedly, a science fair, motivated by the sudden interest of the students in astronomy and space. And I wanted Jade to be a juror.

“Maybe it’s a way of… to begin to repair what happened,” he wrote.

That night, at the dining room table, Mariana listened to the news with her eyes shining.

“You should come up with an ion propulsion project,” he suggested, leaning over the plate. Like the experimental system you told me about for phase three of Artemis.

Jade looked at her, surprised.

“It’s an advanced topic, Mari. Very advanced. Are you sure?

Mariana held her gaze.

“I don’t want them to think that I only gained respect because you work at NASA. I want them to see that I understand what you do too.

The words came out with more force than she herself expected. And in those eyes, Jade clearly saw something she had seen before in the mirror: the calm decision of one who had already been underestimated too many times.

Throughout the weekend, the small apartment where they lived was transformed into a makeshift laboratory. On the table were piled diagrams, pieces, small cables, sheets with handwritten formulas. Mariana studied each concept with intense concentration, marking pages with colorful post-its, asking questions non-stop.

Jade watched, correcting a number from time to time, but not taking the project away from her. It was Mariana’s world. Their own journey.

On the eve of the fair, they did the final test of the ion propulsion model that Mariana had put together with almost surgical patience. A small turbine ignited emitting a bluish glow, soft but firm.

“It works!” Mariana shouted, throwing herself into her mother’s arms.

For the first time since that morning in the classroom, laughter came out freely, without weight.

---

On the day of the fair, the school gymnasium smelled of new cardboard and baking soda. There were models of the solar system made of Styrofoam balls, plastic volcanoes that spat foam, posters about photosynthesis and the water cycle. Among all that color, in a discreet corner, was Mariana’s table.

At first glance, his project didn’t attract so much attention: it didn’t have flashy lights or posters with large drawings. Just a sober model, meticulously assembled, and a technical explanation written in clear handwriting. At her side, her friend Zoe — one of the first to defend her after the incident — was checking the connections for the last time.

“Nervous?” Zoe asked.

“A lot,” Mariana replied, being sincere. But I think today… It’s going to be different.

The judges began to walk around the tables. Among them was Professor Porter, with a notebook in her hand and a frown less than usual. When he stopped in front of Mariana’s project, he hesitated for a moment.

—Ion propulsion? he read aloud. Specifically, the system that NASA is developing for phase three of Artemis…

“Exactly,” Mariana said, calmly.

Diana looked at her with a strange mixture of pride and shame.

“It seems… advanced,” he admitted.

“Do you want to see it work?”

Before the teacher could answer, Mariana turned on the model. The little turbine spun again, bathing the surroundings in that hypnotic bluish glow. Some students from nearby projects approached, attracted.

“This type of propulsion,” Mariana explained, without hesitation, “uses electricity to accelerate ions to very high speeds. It doesn’t produce as much thrust at first as a traditional chemical rocket, but it’s much more efficient for long trips in deep space. It’s like choosing between a car that accelerates very fast but uses gas like crazy and one that takes longer to start, but can travel enormous distances without stopping.

People nodded. The questions came one after another. Mariana answered them all, with more and more confidence. At a certain point, she completely forgot that she was being evaluated. All that was left was that wonderful feeling of explaining something you are passionate about and seeing how the eyes of others light up with curiosity.

From a distance, Jade and director Adriel watched the scene. The director smiled.

“Your daughter is extraordinary,” he said quietly. I think we are seeing the birth of a scientist.

When it was time to announce the winners, the murmur in the gym turned into a restless wave. Nerves hung in the air.

“Third,” the director announced, “Milly, with her project on solar energy. Second, Zoe Washington, with her research on habitable exoplanets.

The applause resounded.

Adriel paused dramatically slightly.

“And in the first place—” Mariana Ales, with her functional ion propulsion model for space travel.

For an instant, time stopped for Mariana. Then, the entire gym erupted in applause. Some stood up. Zoe gently pushed her forward.

“Go,” he whispered. You earned it.

Mariana walked to the stage with the feeling of floating. He received the certificate, a small medal and, to his surprise, a scholarship to attend a summer program at the local observatory.

“Would you like to say a few words?” The director asked, offering him the microphone.

She hesitated for a second, looked at the sea of faces in front of her… and then, at the back of the gymnasium, he saw Professor Porter, standing with her arms folded, watching her with an expression that was impossible to read.

He took a breath.

“This project isn’t just about rockets,” he began, his voice clear. It’s about learning to believe in yourself, even when no one else does. It’s about moving forward even if you’re told you don’t belong in certain places.

He paused. He felt a lump in his throat, but he kept going.

“I learned science with my mother, but these days I learned something even more important: no one has the right to decide my limits for me.

Jade felt her eyes water. All over the gym, there were people who swallowed hard, people who looked at themselves inside, even if it was for a second.

At the end of the ceremony, many colleagues approached Mariana to congratulate her, to ask her to explain once again how that “blue light engine” worked. The environment that had made her feel so small weeks before, now seemed different.

In a more secluded corner, Professor Porter approached Jade. His eyes were bright, his voice trembling.

“Dr. Ales,” he said quietly. I wanted to apologize. Not only because of what I said about you, but because of what I did to Mariana. Today I understand that my words came from assumptions that I never questioned. And that I hurt her in a way that has made me see my own wounds as well.

Jade looked into her eyes. Behind the rigidity, he saw something he recognized: the weariness of someone who has fought all his life against his own limits and those of others… and who, sometimes, unintentionally, repeats the same barriers with others.

“In science,” he replied gently, “a well-understood mistake is worth almost as much as a right. What really matters is what we do after we recognize it.

The teacher nodded, with a lump in her throat.

In the center of the gym, Mariana was still explaining her project, but now there was something different on her face. It wasn’t just pride. It was a kind of certainty, a new peace. As if he had understood, at last, that the value of his voice did not depend on anyone’s approval.

---

Three months later, Riverside School looked like a different one.

In the main hallway, a display case displayed Mariana’s ion propulsion project, along with photos from the ceremony. On one side, a sign announced: “Astronomy Club – 32 active members.” Interest in the cosmos had exploded. There were waiting lists to use the school’s small telescope.

One afternoon, Mariana was walking with Zoe and two new classmates, talking about ideas for the regional fair.

“What if we add a simulation of the atmosphere of Mars?” Jack proposed, a boy who had barely spoken to him months ago.

“It could work,” Mariana replied enthusiastically. If we combine that with a hydroponics system, we can show how plants would grow in a Martian habitat.

As they turned the corner, they ran into Professor Porter, who was arranging some books in a closet. For a second they stared at each other in silence. The old discomfort appeared… But this time he did not stay.

The teacher smiled. A small gesture, but genuine.

“I can’t wait to see your project at the regional fair, Mariana,” he said. I heard you’re working with hydroponics in a Martian environment.

“Yes,” Mariana replied, surprised. With simulated soil and a closed nutrient cycle.

“If you need help with the chemical analysis of the materials,” the teacher added, shyly, “my door is open.”

As they walked away, Zoe gently pushed Mariana with her shoulder.

“And that?”

Mariana shrugged, smiling from the side.

“Mom always says that there are people who just need time to recalibrate their orbit.

That night, Meadview’s observatory was more crowded than ever. Entire families with blankets and thermoses of hot chocolate, students with notebooks, teachers, curious people. In the center, under the dome open to the sky, was Jade in her NASA uniform, ready to speak.

“Good evening everyone, welcome to Meadview’s first annual Stargazing Night,” he announced, receiving a wave of applause. When I moved here with my daughter, I didn’t imagine that we would be experiencing something like this so soon. And today I’m excited to announce a new initiative: the Rising Stars program, a collaboration between NASA and Riverside School to offer mentorship and opportunities to young people interested in science and technology, with a special focus on underrepresented groups.

He called Mariana to the stage. The girl climbed upstairs, no longer trembling, but walking firmly, with the tranquility of someone who knows that she belongs to the place she is stepping on.

“This program was born from a very simple idea,” Mariana said into the microphone, looking at the faces illuminated by the dim red light of the observatory: “no dream is too big and no child should be discouraged from reaching for the stars, no matter what they look like or where they come from.

In the audience, Professor Porter listened with moistened eyes. At the end of the night, he approached Jade and Mariana again. This time he was carrying something in his hand: an old photo, a little yellowish.

“My grandmother,” he said, showing her down. Her name was Eleanora. I dreamed of being an astronomer in the 50s, but at that time… Women, and even less black women, had no place in that world. I think he would have loved to see all this. He would have loved to see you.

Mariana took the photo carefully, with a mixture of respect and tenderness.

“You can still see it,” he answered. Through you.

A few days later, at the end of the semester, Professor Porter handed Mariana an envelope.

“Open it when you’re home, yes?” he asked.

That same afternoon, sitting at the kitchen table, Mariana opened the envelope. Inside he found the same photo of Eleanora, with her telescope pointed at the sky, and a handwritten letter.

“Dear Mariana:

This is my grandmother, the woman who taught me to look up, even when the world insisted that I look down. His dream was to map the stars. I grew up thinking that some dreams just weren’t for us.

Thanks to you, I understood that it is not too late to look at the sky again. Thanks to you, I learned that true knowledge begins when we dare to question our own limitations.

Sorry for trying to limit yours.

With love and gratitude,
Diana Porter.”

Mariana smiled. He realized that something had changed forever. The pain of that morning in the classroom had not magically disappeared, but it had transformed into something greater: the certainty of her own worth… and the awareness that, sometimes, the prejudices of others are nothing more than stardust, old remnants of a world that is being left behind.

The stars, he thought as he looked out the window at the dark sky dotted with points of light, will always shine. It doesn’t matter how much shade you try to cover them.

The question is: do you dare to look up and claim your place among them?