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Chiron would have absolute mutiny within twenty-four hours if he tried to make his campers celebrate Father’s Day. That would be putting it lightly. He’d tried to encourage them to try it once in ‘73 after the holiday was invented and that was no mistake he was eager to repeat, thank you very much. And, if he was being completely honest, he couldn’t blame them. His own father had eaten most of his half-siblings and then returned to kill the lot of them. Twice. A card was simply out of the question.
The holiday often came and went at camp without him hearing a word about it at the bonfire or during training. And to soften any dismay felt at the holiday’s passing, small toys or candies somehow ended up under the pillows of occupied bunks in all the cabins. (Of which he had no knowledge, of course)
But when he returned to the Big House after dinner on the third Sunday of June and checked the mailbox nailed to the front of the porch, he always found himself smiling. He couldn’t remember exactly when kids started leaving him notes on Father’s Day, but since they started there’s always been at least one there for him at the end of the night.
Some were cards in envelopes, some were notebook papers folded in half with the perforated edges still attached, some were just small yellow post-it notes. He appreciated them all the same, no matter the medium; all of them were written with gratitude and love. He’d be callous to ignore the fact he was sometimes the closest thing to a father figure many of his campers would ever have. It hurt to love them, knowing the end that his demigods, his heroes, usually met. But it would hurt him more to go through his immortality having never loved them at all.
He tucked the notes under his arm and made his way to his room where he would read and file them accordingly.
The first was simple, a plain envelope he knew would hold a simple hand-drawn card with a messily scrawled message inside. The sight of it warmed his heart. She hadn’t missed a Father’s Day yet.
To: Chiron
From: Annabeth.