Arthur Kirkland had promised his wife on her deathbed that he would provide for their sons in every way they could.
"Dad?"
He had been 26, and Jenny would have been 24 by the summer's end. The next two months had seen Arthur grieving while trying to care for two babies. He had been given much-needed aid by his sympathetic aunt, but he knew that at some point he would have to care for his (their) children alone.
"Dad, I'm sorry."
He remembered how much Matthew looked like Jenny when he was little, how sombre and quiet he was in comparison to his rambunctious brother. Arthur always thought that Matthew knew he was missing a big part of his life; he'd only been mistaken when he thought that part was a mother.
"Please let me try to explain."
Again and again, he wished he could talk to Jenny, because speaking to her resentful sister over the phone was no replacement for the love of his life. But he wished he could ask Jenny about the children, what to do. He had been ready for children, but only with Jenny. God knows he did his best, and he was immoderately proud of his sons, but he knew someday he would be proven to have failed.
Matthew was watching him from across the table, his eyes shadowed as though he hadn't been sleeping and his hands clasped tightly together. He had a piece of toast in his hand, he must be just about ready to go to school.
"What do you want to explain, Matthew?" Arthur said with an oblivious smile. Matthew's shoulders slumped.
"Forget it," Matthew muttered, and pulled on his hoodie before stuffing his toast in his mouth. Arthur contemplated saying something to Matthew before he walked out, but didn't. He drank his tea, and then left for work.
Arthur remembered Jenny and the way she'd sing to her large belly and promise Arthur that the children wouldn't have his eyebrows. He remembered when they first met, on the steps of Oxford. She had been studying English Lit, and he Ancient Britons; it was love at first sight, even if she thought Beowulf was overrated.
He remembered the happy year they had lived together here in this very house before they decided to have children. How childishly sure Jenny was that she would have a boy and a girl, even when the ultrasounds were indicating two boys. She was beautiful when she was with child, like the sun and the moon all in one. She would sit in the overstuffed chair that she had to bring over from England for this exact reason and smile when Arthur brought her tea and told shooed the cat away from the upholstery. The chair was still in their living room, practically sacred to everyone who lived here.
He loved his sons, and of course he wanted to support Matthew through whatever phase this was. He wanted to understand, because he was desperate to keep Matthew close to him as long as he could. But he couldn't get his head around whatever it was Matthew was trying to tell him.
"What do I do, Jenny?" he asked softly. "What am I supposed to do?"
There was no answer, of course. He only ever heard Jenny in dreams, and only then in times of happiness and calm. Pouring the remainder of his tea down the sink, he wondered for yet another moment if he was cut out to be a parent and affirmed the realization that he definitely was not. He was forty-four, not getting any younger, and he had been masquerading as a good father for the last eighteen years.
Walls (8/?)
"Dad?"
He had been 26, and Jenny would have been 24 by the summer's end. The next two months had seen Arthur grieving while trying to care for two babies. He had been given much-needed aid by his sympathetic aunt, but he knew that at some point he would have to care for his (their) children alone.
"Dad, I'm sorry."
He remembered how much Matthew looked like Jenny when he was little, how sombre and quiet he was in comparison to his rambunctious brother. Arthur always thought that Matthew knew he was missing a big part of his life; he'd only been mistaken when he thought that part was a mother.
"Please let me try to explain."
Again and again, he wished he could talk to Jenny, because speaking to her resentful sister over the phone was no replacement for the love of his life. But he wished he could ask Jenny about the children, what to do. He had been ready for children, but only with Jenny. God knows he did his best, and he was immoderately proud of his sons, but he knew someday he would be proven to have failed.
Matthew was watching him from across the table, his eyes shadowed as though he hadn't been sleeping and his hands clasped tightly together. He had a piece of toast in his hand, he must be just about ready to go to school.
"What do you want to explain, Matthew?" Arthur said with an oblivious smile. Matthew's shoulders slumped.
"Forget it," Matthew muttered, and pulled on his hoodie before stuffing his toast in his mouth. Arthur contemplated saying something to Matthew before he walked out, but didn't. He drank his tea, and then left for work.
Arthur remembered Jenny and the way she'd sing to her large belly and promise Arthur that the children wouldn't have his eyebrows. He remembered when they first met, on the steps of Oxford. She had been studying English Lit, and he Ancient Britons; it was love at first sight, even if she thought Beowulf was overrated.
He remembered the happy year they had lived together here in this very house before they decided to have children. How childishly sure Jenny was that she would have a boy and a girl, even when the ultrasounds were indicating two boys. She was beautiful when she was with child, like the sun and the moon all in one. She would sit in the overstuffed chair that she had to bring over from England for this exact reason and smile when Arthur brought her tea and told shooed the cat away from the upholstery. The chair was still in their living room, practically sacred to everyone who lived here.
He loved his sons, and of course he wanted to support Matthew through whatever phase this was. He wanted to understand, because he was desperate to keep Matthew close to him as long as he could. But he couldn't get his head around whatever it was Matthew was trying to tell him.
"What do I do, Jenny?" he asked softly. "What am I supposed to do?"
There was no answer, of course. He only ever heard Jenny in dreams, and only then in times of happiness and calm. Pouring the remainder of his tea down the sink, he wondered for yet another moment if he was cut out to be a parent and affirmed the realization that he definitely was not. He was forty-four, not getting any younger, and he had been masquerading as a good father for the last eighteen years.