Probability of paternity: zero percent.
For a long, taut moment, Harlan hadn't spoken. Then he'd made a noise low in his throat, a sort of humourless huff.
"Thought as much," he'd said, folding the paper back into careful quarters. "Doesn't undo the years, though, does it?"
Connor's mouth had been too dry to answer. Harlan had only looked at him for another heartbeat, disappointment far worse than shouting, and then jerked his chin toward the ceiling.
"Do you hear that? There is only one person in this house who has been the adult through all of this, and we both know who that is. Grow up, Connor. Do you remember when you asked me for permission to marry her? Do you remember what I told you?"
"You had said that Fern is the most loyal person on this earth, but if she gives up on me, there will be no going back," Connor replied, remembering the day when he wondered if Harlan would ever approve of him.
"You're the last bloody person she needs right now," muttered Harlan.
"I know," said Connor. "But I am not giving up. I have lost her trust. I have let her down… let Coral down, but that ends now. I can't live without them. Let me at least try."
Harlan had given him a look which would make grown men lose control of their bowels and watched as Connor had gone to the living room door and called, his voice flipping to gentle, "Coral, love? Come on, baby. Let's go see Mum."
Coral had trotted in, clutching her Lego mini-fig in one hand, her curls mussed from the sofa. "Mummy cry?" she'd asked, eyes huge.
"Aye," Harlan had said, bending so his knees creaked, holding out his hand. "But you're very good at helping with sad mummy, aren't ye?"
Connor hugged her carefully as he carried her up the stairs. Harlan watched them go, the report now folded so small it disappeared in his fist. He'd wanted to follow, but he knew that sometimes, he needed to let his child figure things out.
The pain of Fern's raw sobs, occasionally breaking off into hiccups, filtered through the open door. Every ragged breath might as well have been dragged through his own ribs. Gently, Connor set Coral down, not quite letting her go in the end, pulling her back for another hug and kiss on her cheek before letting her toddle into the room. Then he walked downstairs.
He stood at the stove because it was something to do. Coral had eaten her dino pasta with gusto, talking in short bursts. A pan of water hissed as it boiled over, spitting on the hob. He dumped in dried pasta with fingers that still trembled and stirred mechanically, watching the spirals tumble and twist. He made a simple sauce, the way Fern had taught him, with butter, garlic, a little cheese, and the remains of a jar of pesto scraped out with a spoon.
Comfort food. Too little and far too late.
He drained the pasta, mixing it until steam fogged the edges of his vision. His eyes burned, but he blinked hard and ladled a portion into a bowl, added a fork, then grabbed a glass of water. Harlan's heavy tread came down the stairs just as Connor turned toward the hall.
"She asleep?" Connor asked, hating how tentative he sounded.
Harlan's expression told him everything he needed to know. "She's done crying out loud," he said roughly. "Don't make her cry ever again."
It was a warning. Fern was tough. The only time he had seen her tear up was when Coral was born.
Connor swallowed. The bowl warmed his palms, and he clung to it like a shield.
"I made her something to eat," he said. "She... she hadn't had tea."
Harlan's gaze flicked to the bowl, then back to Connor's face. For a moment, Connor thought he'd block the stairs entirely.
"Take it up," Harlan said at last. "And mind how ye go. If she tells ye to leave, you leave."
"Yes," Connor said, the word almost breaking in his throat.
"And Connor—" Harlan stopped him with a hand on his arm. There was no kindness in the grip, but his voice was a shade less harsh. "Don't you dare make this about you tonight. Part of being a parent is knowing that you should put yourself last on the list of priorities. This is not something you have done so far. I don't think you have any more chances with Fern. Just don't let it be the case with Coral."
"I won't," Connor said quietly. "I promise."
Harlan's hand dropped. "Good." He blew out a breath. "I'll be on the sofa if she needs me again. Coral's with her. Don't you wake that child if she's settled, or I swear to God—"
"I won't," Connor said again.
He climbed the stairs slowly, the beige carpet muffling his steps. At the top, the light from the landing pooled through the crack of the bedroom door. He slowly nudged it open with his shoulder.
The room was heavy with tears and sleep. The bedside lamp cast a mellow glow over the duvet. Fern lay curled on her side, her back to the door, the duvet pulled up to her nose. Coral was plastered to her front like a limpet, tiny arm flung over her mother's waist, face buried in Fern's chest.
