"I am grateful, you know. For everything you have done and everything you have sacrificed," he went on. "I know that I do not admit this often, but I wish to tell you that it has not gone unnoticed."
Oliver's eyes lifted, startled.
"You should never have had to be father and brother all at once," Theodore continued. "You should have been free to live as other young men did. But you never complained."
"That was my duty."
"No," Theodore said gently. "That was your love. And it has made you the man you are, however much you doubt it. You have done far better than you believe. And if Father were here to see it, he would have been proud."
Oliver pressed a hand over his mouth, fighting the burn behind his eyes. He had not wept in years, and he would not start now. But the ache in his chest was nearly too much to bear.
"You make it sound easy," he said roughly. He stared down at the edge of the desk, focusing on the scratches in the varnish. "As if all I must do is decide to stop being afraid, and the rest will follow."
Theodore didn't answer right away.
"It isn't easy," Oliver went on, feeling something tight working free in his chest. "I keep thinking, if I had been better, more prepared, perhaps it wouldn't have come to this. Perhaps she'd still be here."
"You are better."
"You didn't see me after they died," Oliver let out a quiet, shaky laugh. "I used to sit in this very chair and think, over and over, that I would never be enough. That I was only ever pretending to be the man you and the girls needed."
His throat felt raw. He tried to swallow, but it did nothing to steady him.
"And now…God help me, I have gone and done it again," he said. "Told her that I could never be a father, never be what she deserved. Because I am still that same boy, sitting here at nineteen, thinking he will ruin everything he touches."
He finally lifted his head, and for once, he did not bother to hide the ache on his face.
"I don't know how to stop it," he said quietly. "How to stop believing that if I let myself hope, I will only make a mess of it."
Theodore's expression softened, and he pulled in a breath as though searching for the right words.
"I think…" He paused. "I think everyone feels like that, in some way or another. But not everyone admits it."
"That is hardly comforting."
"Maybe not," Theodore allowed. "But it's the truth. And if you ask me, it means you care enough to be afraid."
Oliver rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to steady himself. "I don't want to fail her," he said after a moment, "I don't want her to look at me one day and wonder why she ever said yes."
"Have you met her?" Theodore gave a quiet huff. "She doesn't strike me as the sort who wonders whether she's made a mistake."
That startled a laugh out of Oliver, though it was a thin, tired sound.
"I can't…God, Theo." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't even tell if I'm doing this because I love her, or because I'm too afraid to let her go."
"Does it matter?" Theodore asked simply.
Oliver looked up, frowning.
"I mean," Theodore went on, "you love her. You're terrified. You'd rather spend the rest of your life alone than risk disappointing her. All of that sounds a lot like love to me."
Oliver exhaled, and for a moment, he simply sat there, trying to gather the tangle of his thoughts into something he could name.
"I don't know how to be the kind of man who doesn't question everything," he admitted.
"You don't have to be," Theodore said quietly. "You just have to try."
Oliver let his gaze drift back to the portrait on the wall.
