Hushed Willows driftwood: a fairytale

well, there goes that assumption. delight cannot help the way his eyes grow large and round, saucer-like, as olive speaks; his heart flutters. you are one of the good ones. surely he's not, but he can believe it, for a second, when olive says it -- it is hard not to get pulled into her confidence. 

he opens his mouth to say yes, of course, pulled along into the fantasy. but he cannot in good conscience accept outright. delight pulls back, his brow furrowing gently. "i want to say i'd do anything for you and seabreeze," he murmurs, melancholy, "but -- olive, i am a terrible father. how could you trust me at all?" one daughter long since gone, one reclusive and physically weak, and his son, who was such a happy boy and who is such a upsetting adult, who delight failed the most -- even if mali ever deigned to forgive him, he'd never forgive himself; hell, he can't even bring himself to talk to the boy these days.

"i love you," he says, his mouth tightening into a fragile line, "i couldn't do that to either of you."