“Promise?” Oliver looked up at him with such trust.
“I promise.”
Thaddeus departed without looking at Maribel, his movements stiff, controlled. She watched him go, her heart aching. He was struggling—that much was obvious. Whatever complex emotions Oliver’s single word had unleashed, Thaddeus was attempting to manage them alone.
“Maribel?” Oliver had moved to stand beside her chair. “Do you think His Grace will really play with me again tomorrow? I… want to show him another trick. Do you think… Do you think he’s really not mad at me for calling him papa?”
“No, sweetheart.” She pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. “He is really not mad at you. And I am sure he will play with you again tomorrow. He… just has a lot of work to do.”
She had to leave him alone, to gather his thoughts. And yet… Maribel knew she could not bear to let him struggle on his own.
Not with this. Not when she had witnessed the devastation in his eyes as he held Oliver.
“Why don’t you practice your letters for a bit?” she suggested gently. “I need to speak with His Grace about household matters, but I shall return shortly.”
Oliver nodded and settled at his small desk whilst Maribel rose, her mending forgotten. Her feet carried her through corridors she had come to know well, toward the study where she knew Thaddeus would have retreated.
She paused outside his door, gathering courage. Then knocked softly.
“Enter.”
She found him standing at the window, his back to the room.
“Thaddeus.”
His shoulders went rigid at the sound of his name. “I am occupied presently.”
“I know that what happened upset you?—”
“Nothing upset me. The child made an error in address. I corrected him gently. The matter is resolved.” The words sounded almost mechanical, devoid of inflection.
Maribel closed the door behind her and moved deeper into the study. “He called you Papa, and you told him he had done nothing wrong. That was exactly right.”
“Was it?” He did not turn. “Because all I could think whilst holding him, whilst reassuring him—” His voice cracked. He steadied it with visible effort. “All I could think was that I was glad he said it.”
The confession hung between them.
“Of course you were glad,” Maribel said gently. “He was offering you his trust. His affection. Why should that not make you glad?”
“Because it is wrong.” He turned then, and the anguish in his grey eyes struck her breathless. “Nicholas is dead. Oliver calls me Papa because his real father cannot be here. Because tragedy has placed me in this position. How can I feel anything but guilt?”
Understanding dawned with painful clarity. “You believe feeling joy about this is somehow betraying Nicholas.”
“How can it be anything else?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “My dearest friend is dead, and I—I felt proud when his son called me Papa. As though I had earned such an address. As though I deserved—” He could not finish.
Maribel crossed to stand before him, close enough to see the tears he was desperately fighting. “Because you have earned it. Not by taking Nicholas’s place—no one could do that. But by being present. By trying. By showing Oliver that he is safe and cared for.”
“I should not feel proud.” His voice emerged ragged. “I should feel only grief that Nicholas cannot be here. Only sorrow that Oliver needs someone else because his father—” A harsh sound escaped him. “How can I take any joy in circumstances born entirely of loss?”
“Because Oliver needs you to.” The words came firmly. “He needs you to accept his love without punishing yourself for receiving it. Needs you to be present rather than constantly apologizing for existing in the space Nicholas left.”
Thaddeus stared at her, his chest heaving with breaths that came too fast. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then learn.” Maribel’s voice softened. “Spend time with him. Let him teach you how to be what he needs. And stop believing that caring for him somehow dishonours Nicholas. Your friendtrusted you with his son. He would want you to actually be a father to Oliver, not merely a distant guardian managing from behind walls.”
“What if I fail him?” The question emerged barely above a whisper. “What if I cannot be what he needs? What if?—”
“Then you will have failed whilst trying,” Maribel interrupted gently. “Which is infinitely better than succeeding at remaining distant.” She paused, then added softly: “Oliver loves you, Thaddeus. He would not have called you Papa otherwise. That word slipped out because it lives in his heart, whether or not he means to speak it aloud.”
