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The art teacher at Eden Academy had a very strange reputation. She was known to swing between ideas for classroom activities, sometimes during the middle of the class, called all the students her ‘children’, and was often caught by students being quite weepy in between classes (reportedly because her children’s artwork were just so beautiful ), while during class she smiled brightly at every student’s work, as if they were Van Gogh themselves. She immersed herselves in multiple layers of colourful silk scarves and spoke in hushed tones, almost whispering, which most of the children found very comforting.
Not Damian.
He couldn’t stand the way she flounced about, almost indecisively, and seemed to not care what anyone thought about her. Almost like a certain someone he knew.
That day, the art teacher came into class weepier than usual, and announced that they should all be making “Father’s Day” cards, adding: “It only comes around once a year, and you never know. If you don’t send this now, you may regret it!”
Such an ominous way to address a class of ten-year-olds.
Damian stiffened, but Anya Forger instantly brightened (because of course she did ), and started getting to work right away, grabbing coloured pieces of card and pencils. Did she even know what she was going to do with them?
“I’m going to make my Papa a really colourful card,” she announced cheerfully, and she set up her station right next to him what was she thinking?? “What kind of card are you going to make, Sy-on boy?”
Damian did his best to pull himself together, and to calm his racing heart, but he didn’t say anything before he was interrupted by none other than Becky Blackbell.
“Ooh, maybe I can make a card for Loid-san too!” She had a sickeningly sweet look in her eye, and Damian wanted to barf.
Anya hmphed . “You’ve got your own Papa, this one’s mine!”
It was so strange to see Anya get jealous. Luckily, there wasn’t too much of a power struggle, and Becky conceded defeat quickly.
“Ugh, fine!” she stuck out her tongue to Anya playfully, but as soon as Anya turned away and started to make her own card, Becky’s smile slipped a little.
“I hope my Daddy gets it on time,” she said wistfully. “He’s always away on business trips.”
Damian’s heart twisted in his chest, but he tried to ignore it. At least he still lives with you , he wanted to say. At least you do see him. At least he loves you.
Even at the tender age of ten years old, Damian knew that it was wrong to think these things somehow, so he squashed it down, and pretended not to notice Anya staring at him carefully while his gut writhed with resentment.
Damn it, even Emile and Ewen were getting stuck in to the task, and suddenly Damian felt like there was an invisible wall between him and the rest of his friends.
Damian stared at the blank page before him.
Damian stared at the blank page.
Damian stared at the blank page.
He could make it simple. ‘Dear Father, Happy Father’s Day, Love, Damian’. He could do that. Short and to the point, exactly like his father, exactly like he did everything in his life. Although, Damian couldn’t imagine his father ever being ‘happy’, so it would have to be: ‘Dear Father, Father’s Day, Love, Damian’.
Even ‘dear’ felt like too much. It was far too intimate a word to ever be associated with Donovan Desmond. And, if he thought more about it, ‘love’ felt a bit awkward to use, too. The message in his mind was starting to look sparser and sparser: Father, Father’s Day, Damian.
Well, now it just sounded stupid.
He should put ‘love’ back in. That was what children said to their parents, right? That was what parents were supposed to say to… their own children…
Damian blinked and he realised that the page before him was no longer a blank, but contained just two words.
Love Damian
He had forgotten the comma. Damian brought his hand gently down to correct it, but his hand stayed terribly frozen as he read the words again and again and -
Love Damian
He clutched his fountain pen tighter in his hands, and even though the rest of the paper was a white sheet, he swore that it was starting to become very blurry.
Why didn’t his father…?
Why?
Why didn’t anybody -
Love Damian
Something wet landed on the words, smudging the ink, and Damian blinked rapidly in surprise, but somehow that only made the tears fall faster, until the words turned to a grey smog. A cloud of meaninglessness and despair.
Lo ve D ami n
The words looked broken. They felt broken. Like how he was inside. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t heard those words, because there was something wrong with him, because he didn’t deserve it, he hadn’t proved himself yet -
Lo e a n
Alone.
A terrible ache wrenched his chest apart, and his breaths came in shallow gasps.
“Sy-on…”
He whipped his head up to the side, and green eyes stared at him, worry etched all over her face. Her voice was quiet, out of earshot of their friends, and Damian wondered if she was trying to be considerate for him.
“Are you okay?”
Of course he was. He was Damian Desmond. Yet the question pulsed at him: Are you okay?
“I’m-” he rasped. “I’m fine.” Hot tears streamed down his face.
And then she tried to reach for his hand, and he snapped.
“Go away! Don’t touch me!” he barked and slapped her hand away, and in a wave of shame and terrible anger, he tore up his paper, each syllable accompanied by another rip. “This is a waste of time!”
“This is so stupid! I hate this! I hate everyone!” He tossed the shredded pieces, not bothering to watch them fall like snowflakes to the floor, and he stormed out of the room, the stares of his classmates lingering on him like smoke.
He didn’t even mean to leave the classroom, and he didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going to go, but his heart seized when he heard footsteps coming after him.
“Mister Desmond! Please come back-”
And in his hurried departure, Damian didn’t notice the figure of Professor Henderson until he bumped into him.
“S-sorry professor,” Damian’s lip wobbled as he looked up at his favourite teacher, and the clarity of what he had just done washed over him. “P-please don’t give me a Bolt, I was just…”
He didn’t know how to explain himself.
“You don’t have to make a card for Father’s Day, Mister Desmond, you can draw whatever you-,” the art teacher tried to explain, but Professor Henderson held up a calm hand towards her.
“I’ll handle this one, please return to your classroom.”
She didn’t need to be told twice. She retreated with a trail of floral perfume and silky scarves, while Professor Henderson sighed, and regarded the young Desmond carefully through his monocle. Meanwhile, Damian braced himself, ready to receive a tirade, or even a Bolt, for his inexcusable behaviour.
“Walk with me, Mister Desmond.”
Damian didn’t have a choice but to comply. The adrenaline from the moment had gone, and all that was left were his wobbly knees and trembling lips. It seemed like Professor Henderson expected him to start talking on his own but, not wanting to get into any more trouble, Damian kept his lips stubbornly shut.
After some time, Professor Henderson concluded that the ten-year-old boy was as stubborn as he was four years ago, and he breathed a ragged sigh of defeat. He had more experience in elegance and excellent education than he did about feelings, but as a core faculty member, and instrument of pastoral care, he realised that it was time to address something with Damian Desmond that he should have brought up long ago.
Professor Henderson cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ve realised, Mister Desmond, that it’s not uncommon for students at Eden Academy to have difficult, often strained relationships with their parents.”
He glanced at Damian through his monocle, but the boy’s lips had tightened into a thin line. Still, silence was better than his behaviour from the classroom. He carried on.
“In fact, I had some difficulties adjusting when I attended this school, the same age as you are now.”
Damian glanced at him distrustfully. It was hard to believe that even the more reliable adults in his life had problems of their own, or even knew an ounce of what he was feeling.
“It took a long time for me to work through my thoughts and emotions, but I was very lucky in that I had excellent role models around me to show me what it meant to be a dedicated student, a loyal friend, and on occasion, a reliable father-figure.”
Damian stopped walking, and his throat scratched raw as he looked at Professor Henderson, his favourite teacher, with widened eyes.
“Father... figure?”
Professor Henderson paused his stroll, and regarded the little Desmond carefully.
“A father-figure can be someone who may not be your biological father, but who has been able to positively influence some aspects of your life, or who you feel safe with. Perhaps they are someone who provides you with a sense of security, and reliability. Perhaps someone that you could turn to for support, advice, or even a bit of guidance.”
The pensive look on Damian’s face told Professor Henderson that his words seemed to be having some sort of effect, and he watched as the thought flitted across Damian’s eyes, his expressions like colourful strokes on a canvas. He was far too young to be wearing such a heavy, decided expression.
“Thank you, Professor Henderson,” said Damian quietly. “I’m ready to go back to class now.”
Professor Henderson kindly escorted Damian to class, and though there was only ten minutes, the teacher was more than happy to welcome him back, even though he felt a bit embarrassed to return so soon after his embarassing outburst.
Ewen and Emile shuffled their seats to the side, leaving plenty of room for a red-faced Damian to take his seat again, and Anya glanced at him carefully out of the corner of her eye. He would have to apologise to her for being so mean to her.
The art teacher put a new piece of card in front of Damian, as well as some pens, and he looked up at her shyly. “I’m going to need more cards. Please.”
His friends knew him well, and none of them asked him about his outburst, or addressed it in any way, instead pretending that it didn’t happen, and soon Damian allowed himself to feel a little more relaxed around his friends.
It wasn’t long before the bell rang for the end of school, and the rest of the class gleefully packed up their bags, eager to head home, or to go to the after-school activities, but Damian remained where he was. He wasn’t finished making his cards.
Ewen and Emile hurried to soccer practice, saying that they would let the coach know Damian was going to finish the assignment, while Becky leapt from her stool. “Martha’s waiting for me outside, see you tomorrow, Anya!” She waved goodbye as she too, left.
But there was a presence that didn’t leave. She seemed far too concentrated on making her card. In Damian’s opinion, it was the craziest piece of art he had ever seen in his life. The colours were garish, and clashing, and the cutouts she had intended to make a collage version of her father actually ended up looking like some kind of Picasso monstrosity.
Instead of commenting on her unusual (and nightmare-inducing) artstyle, Damian huffed at her. “Why are you staying behind, Forger? I thought your father was picking you up?”
“He knows I can be late sometimes,” she said it with her tongue sticking out in concentration, so it muffled some of the impact of her words. “I want to make sure it’s finished. Plus, I get to hang out with Sy-on boy after school!” she grinned at him.
Damian softened. It was obvious that she had somewhere else to be, but for some reason, she was choosing instead to stay by his side, to make sure he wasn’t alone. It was like she had already forgiven him for what he said to her, and warmth bloomed in his chest.
“Alright then,” he mumbled, and he got to work.
Damian’s methods of cardmaking were simple, and precise, with an elegance to it that Professor Henderson would have been proud of. Still, he tried to hide some of the pieces from Anya, using his arm to block her view as he stuffed them all into envelopes, and when Anya wasn’t looking (or pretending not to look), he slipped two of the envelopes into her bag.
The third envelope he slid under the office door of his favourite teacher.
As for the fourth envelope, Damian asked the matron of Cecile Hall to post it home for him. He hoped that it would arrive on time.
Professor Henderson guessed who might have slipped the cream-coloured envelope under his door, but he chose to wait until the light footsteps shuffled away, before he scraped his chair back from his desk, and picked it up delicately with his long fingers.
He retrieved a letter opener from his top desk-drawer, and sliced it neatly open. After taking a moment to read it, he gently lifted his monocle to dab at his eye with a handkerchief.
Dear Professor Henderson,
I thought about what you said. It helped me a lot. Thank you for your guidance.
You’re my favourite teacher.
Sincerely,
Damian
“Oh, I forgot!” Anya exclaimed, her mouth full of her after-school toast. “There’s something in my schoolbag for you!”
Loid groaned. “Anya, if it’s another letter from the school-”
“It’s not from the school! I promise it's not another Bolt,” she grinned at him with chocolate spread sticking to her teeth. “Just read it!”
“Fine, fine,” Loid sighed, and retrieved her schoolbag from where she had carelessly tossed it. After a cursory look inside, he pulled out two envelopes, and frowned. “Anya, there’s one here for you too -” he started, but Anya waved him away.
“It’s okay, Papa, I already know what it says!” she quickly polished off her toast, and went to wash her hands, humming to herself.
Loid shrugged, and glanced over the note, just to check that it wasn’t anything suspicious, but what he saw made him smile.
Dear Anya
I’m sorry for earlier, I’ll try to be better. Thank you for being my friend.
Sincerely,
Damian
Loid placed the letter in her room, where she would no doubt find it later, and he carefully thumbed open the seal on the second envelope.
The words inside were a pleasant surprise, and the wave of emotions that came up inside him prompted him to take a seat on Anya’s bed. Loid allowed himself a moment of privacy inside Anya’s room to absorb the words properly.
Dear Mr Forger,
Thank you for being a good father to Anya. It’s obvious that she loves you a lot so I think it’s good that you make her so happy. She is fun to be around when she is happy and smiling so thank you.
Sincerely,
Damian
Letters fell through the posting slot of the servant’s door in the Desmond manor. It was a daily routine that the staff were used to, and the letters were quickly gathered and sorted to go to their respective recipients.
Jeeves took pride in making sure to hand-deliver all of Mr Desmond’s letters to his desk directly, as was part of his role as the head butler, but it also put him in a great position to leap to aid if requested.
He stayed still by the door as he watched Donovan Desmond flit through the letters, his lip curled upward in scorn. Jeeves’ own face remained impassive as he watched his employer at work. After a moment, when it was clear that none of the letters needed Jeeves’ attention, or any further action, he was dismissed with a curt wave, and Jeeves gladly left the stifling office.
And when he returned later to the servant’s door, he noticed an envelope that had been left on the side table. It was addressed to him.
He opened it quickly knowing that a handwritten letter sent straight to the estate could be something important - and he wasn’t wrong. Jeeves read over the letter a few times, letting each word unfold before him like a butterfly.
Then, knowing that he had a job left to do, he carefully folded the card and tucked it into his breast-pocket, where the words could sink into his heart.
Dear Jeeves,
Thank you for always being the one to answer the phone. Your advice and support does help. I’m glad I have you as a father-figure.
Happy Father’s Day.
Love,
Damian