Meanwhile, Damian devoted himself to a much more delicate responsibility: learning how to become a father.
He never pressured Lily to call him “Dad.” He never demanded immediate affection. To the three-year-old girl, he was simply Damian—the tall man who built elaborate cardboard fortresses, used ridiculous voices while reading bedtime stories, and never became tired of hearing her explain her drawings.
One afternoon, while they sat together on the porch, Lily looked up from her coloring book. “Why do you stay here so much?”
Damian froze and glanced toward Mabel, who was watching from the doorway.
“Because I love being with you, Lily,” Damian said gently.
“And with my mommy?” Lily asked innocently.
Mabel nearly dropped the glass of tea in her hand.
Damian smiled warmly. “Especially with your mommy.”
Lily thought about that for a moment, nodded wisely, and immediately returned to coloring her dinosaur.
Those quiet, unscripted moments affected Damian more deeply than anything else. He had spent half his life believing success meant corporate acquisitions, accumulating wealth, and never needing anyone. Now, sitting on a wooden porch and watching a three-year-old draw, he understood that true purpose was much simpler. However, there was one urgent problem that Mabel could no longer overlook: her cottage.
A powerful summer thunderstorm exposed just how serious the structural problems had become. Rainwater streamed through three separate rooms, forcing Mabel and Damian to place buckets everywhere while shifting furniture around in the middle of the night. Part of the waterlogged drywall finally gave way near the hallway.
