Work Text:
“Am I a good dad?” you want to ask, but you already know the answer. A confirmation is accusation. If Carlos says no, your fate is sealed, sentence passed. Past performance is not a predictor of future results, but you can't help but think you take after your mother.
So you sit on the couch, typing up a script for a Children's Fun Fact Science Corner — they always tend to get away from you — and you watch your son play with Legos on the ground while Carlos makes dinner Esteban thinks you're a good dad, or at least he acts nothing like what few and vague memories you have of yourself as a child, so you must be doing something right.
But you thought your mom was a good mom. Not later, not once you grew up. At her funeral you didn’t speak a word, and that’s weird for you, because you’re so good with words, but you stood there and you didn’t speak. You didn’t speak for a very long time. And then you leaned into Abby, and you asked, “Can we go?” and you don’t remember what it felt like to be a child, but maybe it feels like this.
Suddenly, Esteban cries out, and you throw aside what you’re doing to check on him. “Esteban?” you ask, and there’s a little twinge of panic in your voice. “Are you okay?”
Esteban sniffs and looks up at you. “I stepped on a Lego,” he says.
Cecil sits him down and checks his foot. No blood, no bruise, none of the characteristic eldritch horrors Legos were prone to summoning.
“Would you like some orange juice?” Cecil asks, booping Esteban on the nose. “Would some orange juice make it better?”
“Yes!” Esteban exclaims, the pain forgotten.
And he might not be the best — it’s hard for him to be the best, to always be present, to count on him to remember — but he tries. He loves, he cares. Esteban is happier than Cecil can ever remember being in his childhood and happier than he doesn’t remember. So maybe he’s doing something right.