“I know,” Tybalt said, half in protest and half-exasperated. He was very, very aware, and neither being told it nor suddenly having – people expecting things of him was much help in somehow magically knowing what to do and who to be. “I know.”
He let his head fall into his hands for a moment so Mrs. Cavanaugh couldn’t see the scrunched-up face he was making, though he supposed that disheartened gesture looked just as pathetic anyway. But, see, Tyb at least had an idea of who he didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to end up like his father, who had always seemed to consider his family an extraneous duty in his life, and not the centre of it; who had washed his hands of his magical children as far as it was possible to do so; who seemed to think sending on a financial allowance once in a while was his end of the familial bargain appropriately upheld.
But then – whose example was he supposed to follow? Where was the rulebook for this? Elsie’s father seemed like a good man, but he was off doing business often enough that Tybalt barely knew what he was like with his children, nevermind when they’d been young – but devoted and kind, he assumed. The Beauregards seemed happy, balanced, loving. Meanwhile, Tyb’s brother Atticus could do affection, but he was no role model in most everything else; his former quidditch captain Art Pettigrew had a wife and child, sure, but if Witch Weekly knew anything at all, it didn’t seem like the happiest marriage; some of Elsie’s friends were married and settled and seemingly happy, but Tybalt felt as far from Mr. Keene, comfortable hospital director in his forties, as it was possible to be.
And that was before there was a baby, too.
Obviously Lucinda Cavanaugh knew this – could see right through him – and if it was so clear that he was going to be terrible at this before he’d even tried, maybe it would be smarter to give up now. There was a profound urge to break down again, to let the panic flood back in like when Elsie had first broken the news.
Except – he couldn’t do that anymore. He and Elsie were in this together: and as little use as he was, he had to count for something. “I’m – we’re – saving up, looking for a proper place to move to when we can –” Tyb said finally (obviously replacing Hatchitt in the flat with a wife and child hadn’t been the ideal plan) “– and I don’t know how to be a husband or a father but I swear I’m going to try. I do want to be – a good one.”
He let his head fall into his hands for a moment so Mrs. Cavanaugh couldn’t see the scrunched-up face he was making, though he supposed that disheartened gesture looked just as pathetic anyway. But, see, Tyb at least had an idea of who he didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to end up like his father, who had always seemed to consider his family an extraneous duty in his life, and not the centre of it; who had washed his hands of his magical children as far as it was possible to do so; who seemed to think sending on a financial allowance once in a while was his end of the familial bargain appropriately upheld.
But then – whose example was he supposed to follow? Where was the rulebook for this? Elsie’s father seemed like a good man, but he was off doing business often enough that Tybalt barely knew what he was like with his children, nevermind when they’d been young – but devoted and kind, he assumed. The Beauregards seemed happy, balanced, loving. Meanwhile, Tyb’s brother Atticus could do affection, but he was no role model in most everything else; his former quidditch captain Art Pettigrew had a wife and child, sure, but if Witch Weekly knew anything at all, it didn’t seem like the happiest marriage; some of Elsie’s friends were married and settled and seemingly happy, but Tybalt felt as far from Mr. Keene, comfortable hospital director in his forties, as it was possible to be.
And that was before there was a baby, too.
Obviously Lucinda Cavanaugh knew this – could see right through him – and if it was so clear that he was going to be terrible at this before he’d even tried, maybe it would be smarter to give up now. There was a profound urge to break down again, to let the panic flood back in like when Elsie had first broken the news.
Except – he couldn’t do that anymore. He and Elsie were in this together: and as little use as he was, he had to count for something. “I’m – we’re – saving up, looking for a proper place to move to when we can –” Tyb said finally (obviously replacing Hatchitt in the flat with a wife and child hadn’t been the ideal plan) “– and I don’t know how to be a husband or a father but I swear I’m going to try. I do want to be – a good one.”
