Henry steered his son into the closest room, the little library. Charles went directly to a chair and collapsed into it. He leaned forward and put his hands over his face and began to cry.
It was an agonizing sight to see his son in so much pain. And it was a thousand times worse because he knew he had been the cause of that pain.
Henry was the villain. How had he let things go so awry?
There was no other chair near, and Henry was not going to loom over his son. He got on his knees—fuck these knees—in front of Charles.
Wrapped up in his sorrow, Charles was oblivious to Henry, and Henry did not know how to comfort him. It was a hopelessly awkward position. He could not take Charles into his lap as he did with Mina.
Henry tentatively put a hand on Charles’ shoulder. He could feel his son’s muscles tense, but the crying continued, and Charles did not pull away from Henry’s hand.
“Why?” Charles asked through his sobs. “Why? Why?”
“Why what?” Henry asked gently. “Why what, Charles?”
Charles raised his head. His face was flushed, his nose was running.
He shouted, “Why did you never have affection or affinity for me?”
He put his face back into his hands.
His boy. His lonely boy. And Henry had missed years ofhis life by not making sure Charles knew Henry loved him. Loved him poorly, loved him badly, but loved him.
“Forgive me. Forgive me,” Henry said, his heart a lead weight in his chest. “It wasn’t you. It was never you, never Hal. It was always me. My lack. My stubbornness. My foolish belief that you two loved your mother and, therefore, could not love me. But it is not the child’s task to show their love to a parent. It is the parent who should be reaching, mending misunderstandings, making room for the child. It is the parent who has to bend, has to learn. But I didn’t know that back then. I should have, but I didn’t.”
Charles’ back was not moving up and down with his sobs any longer.
“I am your father. I did very badly by you. And I am more sorry than you can know. More sorry than I can say.”
His voice thick with tears, Charles said into his hands, “I thought you hated me. I believed Mother and thought that was why you hated me.”
“I never hated you. I was proud and stupid and arrogant and deeply unhappy. I’m still stupid, there’s not much hope for that, but I have been humbled.”
Charles took his face out of hands. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet. “Ah.”
He avoided looking at Henry. Henry fumbled a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it into Charles’ hand.
Charles took it, wiped his face. “Are you happy now?”
“Yes. But part of my heart is missing. The part labeled Charles.”
“You love that little girl,” he said, finally meeting Henry’s eyes.
“I don’t love her more than I love you,” Henry said. “I know her better than I know you. But I want to know you.”
“You do?”
It was not said in defiance. Charles did not seekinformation. It was the question of a little boy still needing reassurance, needing to hear again that his father loved him.
“I do,” Henry said. “I want to know you and love you. And, so far, what I know about you—that you always thought of your niece and her well-being—makes me want to know you even more.”
“I’m not as noble as all that. I suppose . . . some part of me wanted to punish you by taking Mina away from you.”
“I deserve punishment, but Mina doesn’t.”
“I won’t take her.” Charles sounded defeated, exhausted. “She doesn’t want to go with me.”
“Like me, she doesn’t know you.”
