Chapter 17 - Tamsin Calls Me Dad Once
It happened by accident.
Four months after the gala.
Not during a reunion.
Not at a family dinner.
I was helping Tamsin assemble a wooden model horse.
Helping is generous.
I was destroying the instructions.
Mara sat across the room working on her laptop.
Tamsin said:
“Dad, that piece goes there.”
Everything stopped.
She stopped too.
Her face changed.
“Corvin.”
I looked at Mara.
She did not rescue anyone.
Good.
I said:
“You can call me whatever feels comfortable.”
Tamsin stared at the horse.
“Mom says you’re Dad.”
“Biologically, yes.”
“That weird.”
“Very.”
“Do you want Dad?”
There was no safe answer if I made it about desire.
“I would be honored if you ever want to call me that.”
She thought.
“Corvin today.”
“Corvin today.”
Five minutes later:
“Dad, no, the other piece.”
Then:
“Corvin.”
Children experiment with names like shoes.
No ceremony.
By six months she used Dad about half the time.
By a year, mostly Dad.
I never asked.
Mara never corrected.
That mattered because my family had spent generations assigning titles like ranks.
Uncle.
Boss.
Chairman.
Godfather.
Patriarch.
Tamsin’s title for me belonged to her.
One afternoon my uncle said:
“Good to finally hear her call you what you are.”
I answered:
“It is not an exam.”
He rolled his eyes.
But stopped.
May you like
We were all learning not to turn children’s affection into institutional confirmation.
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