She looks like Espérer….

In fact, she looks so much like her that it gives me chills. Her smile is toothless now as a baby, but I know that it will be like her mother’s. Bright, heart-warming, and easily able to light up my world. She has curly blonde hair that will grow only longer and more unruly with age. Maybe she’ll even blow it out of her face as Espérer did frequently.

But the most significant resemblance, yet difference, are her eyes. Espérer was known, maybe even notorious, for her silver colored eyes. Some said Espérer had the eyes of an angel sent by God, while others said she had the eyes of a demon taking the form of an angel sent by the Devil. And she passed that trait down to her daughter. Well, mostly.

Right around her pupil, her eyes are brown, but the rest of the iris is silver. I think that this is what convinced Espérer that I am the father. Out of all the men she has been with, I’m the only one with brown eyes. Whenever I look into this child’s eyes, I can only think of Espérer.

Because of how uncanny the physical resemblance is, I suppose that it’s appropriate that Espérer named her daughter Hope.

Espérer is French for hope after all.

Also, there’s no way  Espérer would ever give her a French name. Not with all the horrible events happening in France. It’s becoming a trend in France, Germany, Ireland, and basically every European country to name their children American names in hopes they can fit in with the American culture if they ever get to America. America hates everything that has to do with foreign countries. Even names.

Whether or not Hope will ever get to America is something I do not know. I surely will be allowed since I am American. But Hope was born here in France. And she’s the daughter of Espérer! The worst American traitor from the Revolution!

Well, I have plenty of time to think about that. As for now, I have other things to busy myself with.

I write a response letter to one Enjolras Laurent, the leader of the rebels. He’s asked me to ask America for funds in order to provide the Rebels with guns. I’m going to respond with a clear and strict no. He had the audacity to say that Espérer would want me to help the Rebels. That bastard didn’t seem at all fazed when it was announced that Espérer was killed, and he thinks he has the rights to throw her name around to benefit himself.

But I hate the fact that he’s right. Espérer would be right behind Enjolras if she were alive now, urging me to contact Congress.  Espérer was a Rebel. If she wasn’t, we’d most likely never have met. We happened to invest in the same textile factory and got to know each other in more ways than one. Then, one day, she decided to leave her luxurious life to join, what we call, the “Third Wave Of Rebels”. The only reason I regret not leaving France after Hope’s birth is that it meant I was going to be bugged by Enjolras and his fellow Rebels constantly about how I should help their cause because “Espérer would want it”.

I could’ve been home in South Carolina now, but just as I was boarding a ship to America on that fateful night, news that Espérer was killed got to me. I knew then that I couldn’t leave. If I did, who knows what would’ve happened to Hope? Who knows who she would’ve gone to?

I was scared at first to take Hope in. I have no children of my own. Hell, I don’t even have a younger sibling. I could’ve probably put Hope up for adoption, or maybe even give her up to one of the many other men trying to claim guardianship of Hope, but I fought for her and eventually won. I took Hope out of Paris and we traveled together south of France to the city of Lyon. It’s here in my estate that I’m raising Hope.

I have no clue what I’m doing with this single father job. I’m not around Hope most of the time admittedly and I tend to rely on my servants to care for her, but I’m trying my best. I have many meetings with many aristocrats and government officials. I play my ambassador part with pride, but it’s a bit irritating to not see the little girl I am trying to raise.

Despite what those yellow journalists are saying in their newspaper, I love Hope. I really do. Every single thing about her makes me feel like I was blessed with an angel. And according to my servants, she’s such a well-behaved baby, never crying or spitting up. I wouldn’t know. Any time I’m around her, she seems to almost instantly begin to cry. And any time I hold her, she spits up all over me.

“It’s just because she doesn’t recognize you yet, Sir Thomas,” my servants would assure me. I try to believe that, but I think it’s just because she doesn’t like me. Although I want to spend time around my daughter and maybe get her to be familiar with me, part of me thinks it would be best if I just distance myself from her.

I look at the grandfather clock standing at the opposite side of my office room, the face showing that it’s almost eleven o’clock. Funny. I could’ve sworn the last time I checked it was only half past six. I sigh, rub my eyes, and lean back in my chair. I could perhaps finish this response letter tomorrow morning if I wake up early enough. I push my swivel chair out from my desk and stand up, stacking up some documents and organizing my papers.

I grab my law book, place it back in its respective spot in the bookshelf against the wall, then leave my office room.

The house is quiet. The maids are probably downstairs cleaning. Hope is definitely asleep in her room right now. I had my female friend, Adrienne, design the nursery since she’s a mother and I have no idea what a baby’s bedroom needs. Apparently, they need a crib. Go figure. I am about to go down the stairs to the master bedroom to get some shut-eye, but I realize that I hadn’t actually seen Hope all day. That’s the case for most days, but I’m realizing it only today.

I look three doors down to where Hope’s nursery is. I feel myself being gravitated over. My feet move on their own until I stand in front of her bedroom door. I hesitate for a moment; should I really bother her?

My hand goes on the doorknob, but I remain still for a moment. Now is my last chance to back away. But rather than doing the right thing and leaving, I turn the knob and push the door open gently. To my surprise, I see Hope sitting up in her crib. She’s awake? She moves her hands upward while she giggles to herself. It’s almost like there’s someone standing over her crib entertaining her. It’s weird because there’s no one there. The room is also oddly cold. If I believed in ghosts, I’d say that I feel the presence of someone or something. But I don’t.

“Hope?” I instinctively call her name as I push the door open fully. One second later, she stops laughing and drops her hands. I go over to her crib and find her frowning as though her friend was just taken away. The room suddenly feels a bit warmer. Her magnificent eyes fill with tears and she pouts, looking up at me while her bottom lip quivers.

My heart aches just at the sight of her being sad. She begins to cry, her whines loud and heartbreaking. I question for a moment if I should just let a servant come in and handle her, but I put on my big boy pants and pick her up. I cradle her in my arms carefully, praying to God that I don’t drop her. I rock her back and forth, soothing her the best I can.

“Hey, shh shh. Don’t cry. Please? Look, dad is here for you.”

The word “dad” feels almost foreign. Is that how she is going to see me? Hopefully. I’m her father, and I love her like one.

She continues to cry. I go over to her crib and pull out her stuffed bear. I dance it in front of her playfully. “Look at the bear,” I say softly, shaking the bear. It catches her attention for a moment and she stares with her silver eyes in transfixion. “Look at the dancing bear! He doesn’t want you to cry.”

She continues to glare at the bear, appearing a bit confused, then lets out an even louder cry, moving around angrily in my arms. I toss the bear aside and sit down on the ground in case I do drop her with all her fussing.

“I don’t get why you don’t like me,” I whisper bitterly. “I know I’m not around a lot, but I would be if I could.” She quite obviously doesn’t understand what I’m saying because her cries don't quiet down in the slightest.

“I love you, Hope,” I say, looking down helplessly at my crying child. By some miracle, these simple words cause her to stop crying. What? I sigh in relief. She stares up at me, her eyes still filled with tears. Then, to my joy, she smiles a bit.

Just like her mother. I can’t help but smile back and hold her closer.

I take a deep breath, filling up my lungs the most I possibly can, then let it out slowly. What day is it even?

It’s June 1.

She’s five months old today. Adrienne told me that babies start making big strides at this age. Well, I wouldn’t know since I’m not around long enough to see anything magnificent happen. It hurts my heart to know that I won’t be around for her first word or her first steps. I probably won’t even be around for her first birthday.

But for now, I should cherish this moment. She’s so tiny in my hand. Her little hands wrap around my finger tightly as she looks around the room with her big, bright, curious eyes. Her eyelashes flutter with every blink. A curly strand of her blonde hair falls in front of her face and I brush it back. What a precious girl.

It’s so quiet in the world tonight….

She squirms out of my hand and rolls onto her belly. She wiggles around little a caterpillar as she tries to crawl, not quite understanding how to move her legs or arms, but she seems to have fun doing it nonetheless. She is trying to go for the bear that I dropped to the ground. I grab the bear and sit her in my lap.

“Hello,” I say in a baby voice, dancing the bear in front of her like before, “I’m Bilbo the Dancing Bear! Would you like to dance with me?”

Instead of throwing a fit like last time, Hope laughs happily, reaching her hands out clumsily to grab the bear. To her, everything is funny, isn’t it? She had no regrets. She has no worries. She has no reason to stay up at night.

I’d give everything I have for her to just stay like that.

But babies don’t stay babies. They grow up. And with age comes realization of how cruel and dark the world really is.

As I sit here with this small angel so close to me, I can’t help but get emotional. I was at my worst point when Espérer died. What would I do if Hope hadn’t been here? How would I possibly ever be happy? I was lost and afraid. I had nowhere to go and no clue what to do. Then I found Hope. My pride and joy. The only person keeping me going after hard days. I’m not sure if I can be the best father, but I will goddamn try my best.

“Until I first laid eyes on you and I heard your heart beating, I never knew there was an angel so beautiful,” I whisper to her gently, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “From the moment you arrived, I felt something inside. It was a love so incredibly unconditional. I promise to give you everything I have I will give you the world because you deserve. I will protect you and never let anyone hurt you. I will cross every ocean and climb every mountain before I let you go.”

She probably doesn’t understand a word I said, but she will one day.

I used to laugh when people told me that no one could love a daughter more than her father. But now I don’t laugh, I agree.

I feel the sudden drop in temperature once more. Hope abruptly loses interest in the bear and turns her head to look at the corner of the room. She smiles even wider and extends her arms, bouncing happily as if someone is over there. To my shock, she begins to mumble out small sounds — fragments of words — as she continues to look in the corner of the room. A “j” sound.

“Ja! Ja!”

Ja? What? This is why I really needed Espérer with me. I don’t understand babies, nor do I think I ever will. I stare into the corner of the room in confusion, telling Hope one single thing.

“There’s no one there, Hope.”

At first, about a dozen men came forward and claimed to be one of Espérer’s many lovers. Most of them were reasonable; they were men she was very close with and spent a lot of time with. They seemed to come from all corners of the globe! Germany, Britain, Australia, Russia, America, you name it!

    When people started to realize that taking ownership will give them a large sum of money for, as the King said, “taking a burden off of the common people”, people began lining up for that money. Even women started dressing up as men in hopes of getting that money.

    But the most bizarre claim of ownership is the most recent one that made headlines worldwide: the King of Britain.

    King George III, Such a mysterious character. No one really knows what happens beyond those kingdom doors, nor do people know what is hidden behind the King’s cold, empty, light blue eyes. Well, Espérer knew. She used to work with him for about two years. I’m sure they were close, but never did I expect that close. He had a wife when she was there, didn’t he? I don’t think he had any kids with that wife, so maybe she doesn’t interest him. Espérer did I suppose.

    But then he comes out of nowhere three years after Hope was born and then claims that he’s for sure the father. What a dirty bastard! For anyone else who is unaware of Britain’s current state, it may be a mystery as to why he’d want to take Hope. But for me, someone who always stays on top of all foreign affairs, I know exactly what he wants.

    You see, after the Revolutionary War ended with the fall of Britain’s rule over America and the American Colonies became its own country, the King went under fire from all British citizens as they claimed it was his incompetence as a King that caused their loss. How they came to that conclusion, I do not know, nor do I care.

    The King was desperate at that point to do anything to earn the love from his people; in his mind, the love that he deserved. But things only continued to go downhill when his wife died from mysterious causes about a year ago. The Queen was far more adored than the King, therefore her death caused outrage all over Britain. People stated that the signs that the Queen was not feeling well were obvious, and yet he did nothing about it.

    So this year had been the worst for King George. The only thing that could ever redeem him was if he gave the people an heir. But not just some random kid that will pop out of a random woman, no. That would never do. The people will demand an important baby from an important woman.

    That’s where Hope came in. Espérer, the world-wide known spy, Redcoat, and Rebel, had the daughter that literally hundreds of men want. If the King would be able to take her to be his little princess, the British citizens might just like him again.

    I was a bit surprised, however, when two members of the Royal Guard came knocking on my door and demanded that I give Hope up to them about three weeks ago. You bet your baguette I said no immediately. And let me just say that it takes some guts to say no to two soldiers wielding guns. Luckily, I actually have the support of almost everyone else in the world! After convincing the soldiers to leave and return the next day, I immediately approached the noblemen of France to speak of the occurrence.

While the noblemen themselves couldn’t do anything about it directly, they published the “Pamphlet Regarding Britain’s Ownership of the Young Hope” in which they made many points to argue that Britain should not and will not claim Hope as their own. But it was the reaction that really secured no further British involvement with Hope. The Rebels praised the Pamphlet like the bible and sprung into action. They hunted down these two soldiers and tossed them in the harbor with the same spirit that the Patriot Rebels in America dumped the tea in the harbor. There was then a rampage through all towns where British immigrants or visitors were located and the Rebels drove them out.

The Rebels are a bit too protective of Hope, and there’s a good reason why which they would never admit….

However, something I didn’t expect to happen was the American Congress to rush to my aid. They also published their own pamphlet strictly saying that if any British Man so much as touches Hope they “will not hesitate to cause a repeat of the Revolution”.

It’s almost a blank threat considering that America is in no shape to fight another war, nor do their people want one. But the author of that pamphlet, Head of Congress Maximilian Lakes, is known for being brave enough to throw threats around.

Why Congress came to the defense of Hope is something I do not know. Maybe because they would not want their enemy to have such an influential and well-known girl to be in Britain’s hands. Or maybe they want to help me, their fellow American. Or maybe it’s because, as people were starting to say, Maximilian Lakes is another possible father.

It would make sense. Maximilian Lakes and Espérer used to be friends….

Things only seem to be getting more complicated with Hope. As I have always suspected, I was not around for many of her big moments. One day, I came home to find her walking around the house shakily with her chubby baby legs. I held out my arms in hopes she’d walk to me, but she walked in the opposite direction.

Another time, after a long day at work, I went to Adrienne’s house where Hope was being babysat. Adrienne came over and hugged me with one arm, holding her son in her other, and told me that Hope had said her first words. She led me to the living room where Hope was sitting alone, drooling on a teething toy and giggling to no one in particular.

I was smiling expectantly. I suppose I thought I’d hear her say “dada” or something along those lines. You know, something relating to me. But I guess I was hoping for too much.

“Jacky!” she exclaimed happily, a two-tooth wide and proud smile spreading across her face.

My previous joy had been sucked away. I gave Adrienne a questioning look as she set her son down.

“Who’s Jacky?” I asked.

“No clue,” she said, somehow not disturbed by the fact that my daughter was spewing out random names. “It’s exciting though, isn’t it? I’ve never heard her say anything so clearly! Have you?”

“No, I have not.”

By that point, I had lost a lot of faith that I was any good of a father. The older she got, the more she seemed to avoid me. I started trying to be home more often, but it didn’t make a difference. She would run into another room anytime I come near, pretend to be asleep anytime I come to wish her a good night, and give me a simple nod or shake of the head if I ever ask her something.

She’s three, so she’s well old enough to put together a few words. She just chooses not to; at least not when I’m around. I hear her behind closed doors talking to herself, or maybe her stuffed animals. Whenever she and Georges (Adrienne’s son) are together, she doesn’t hesitate to speak to him. And it’s not like adults make her nervous either because she has no issue conversing with Adrienne.

It’s just me. And it will always be me.

I had lost faith in myself, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up trying. Something I’ve learned is that Hope absolutely loves music. Some days when I really just need to de-stress and take my mind off other matters, I break out my violin and play it for a while. I don’t typically play anymore because I used to play for Espérer a lot. She and I would sometimes do duets: her on the piano and me on my violin.

The rare times that I do decide to play, I do it alone in my room. However, one day I must have been so immersed in the sweet sound of strings that I didn’t notice Hope standing silently in the doorway until halfway through the piece, staring at me in awe and interest with Bilbo the Dancing Bear in one hand. I had set the violin bow down and looked at her patiently. She continued to stare for a second, her big, glowing eyes seeming transfixed and curious as to how a wooden object can make such a beautiful sound.

“Hi, Hope,” I said gently, scared that I might make her cry.

Then she ran to another room.

But it was a step forward, wasn’t it? She hadn’t given me so much as a glance for a long time until that moment. So I started doing it more often. Every night, I’d play a different piece. One night it would be a piece from Bach, the next night Kreutzer, then Vivaldi. And every night she’d come a bit closer to listen, her eyes always showing adoration and innocent desire. Closer and closer each night until, finally, she’d just sit in front of me to listen.

Whenever I would stop playing, she would leave quickly without a single word as though she had a very important place to be. But on some special nights, she’d clap for a second or two before making her quick retreat, her curly blonde hair blazing behind her like a mischievous fox making its great escape.

Her interest in music was like an open doorway just beckoning me to walk through, bright white light shining from within, promising me a better future for me and Hope. So tonight, I thought I’d get her a little gift. I purchased a grand piano and had it moved into an empty room that served no purpose. Espérer was good at playing the piano; she was self-taught in fact. Maybe Hope will have that same talent. She sure has the interest.

When it’s fully set up, I go to retrieve Hope from her room in order to show her the surprise. I stand outside of her room. I’ve since moved her out of the nursery and got her a bigger room. This is where she spends most of her time, playing by herself and her toys. She’s a very shy child, I learned this very fast.

While she knows how to put together small sentences, she doesn’t use them unless she needs something. At first, I thought she was confused with the words she knows. I’ve spoken to her in both French and English, and I’ve told Adrienne and my servants to do the same thing. However, Adrienne has heard her speak in both languages smoothly. This is not the issue. Like most thing regarding Hope, I’m the problem.

I grasp the doorknob firmly when I suddenly hear her high-pitched voice from within.

“Bilbo, do you know where Jacky is?”

There’s that name again! Jacky?! Who the hell is Jacky!?

“I haven’t seen him in a wong twime!” she continues, not being able to pronounce “long” or “time” completely correctly. I hear some shuffling inside the room and a dragging sound from one side of the room to the other.

I get a bit curious and come inside as quietly as possible without a warning. I see Hope over on the other side of the room facing away from me and looking outside the window into the dark night. She has pushed a stool to the window and sits on it eagerly, kicking her legs.

I see papers and paints scattered across the floor, each paper bearing a different drawing. One has a messy flower, another has a vaguely familiar-looking crown, and another has what looks like an angel.

Her stuffed animals have been placed in some sort of cult circle and surround Bilbo as though they are about to sacrifice and eat him. It gives me a chill when I recognize how similar it is to how Rebel rallies look. She has a tea set spread out on her bed. It looks as though she was planning to have a pretend tea party with someone; she had set up two cups of pretend tea and two plates of pretend cookies. She’s alone though.

I don’t go to her room much except for when I make daring attempt to tell her goodnight, so I don’t know if this whole scene is normal or not.

“Hope?” I call.

My voice must have startled her way more than it should have because she nearly falls off the stool before barely holding onto the windowsill and saving herself. She whips around quickly, her eyes looking similar to that of a bunny being hunted by a fox. And just like a bunny does when they see a fox preying on them, Hope stays still, praying that I’ll leave or something.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping forward. She nods swiftly, not saying a word and avoiding eye contact. “What were you looking for? Is there someone out there?” I question further.

She shakes her head, this time taking a single step back while smoothing out the tiny, pink dress she’s wearing.

I cross my arms, looking over her head and out into the darkness. I walk over to the window swiftly as Hope hops off the stool and backs away to her bed. I look down to the ground, expecting Romeo to be throwing pebbles at her window or something, but as I should have guessed, there’s no one there. She definitely wasn’t looking down at someone, but rather waiting for someone to come around.

I turn back to face her and find her sitting nervously on her bed, her spine straight and her eyes trained on the far wall.

“Who’s Jacky?” I ask.

When I say this name, her eyes light up for a single second. The name obviously is familiar, but where from? Yet, the only answer I get from her is a shrug. I sigh heavily as she continues to avoid making eye contact and holds Bilbo close to her chest. I don’t understand how anyone can get anywhere with a toddler.

“I have something to show you,” I say enthusiastically, maintaining the patience that I’ve learned to obtain after a couple of years of being a single father.

She shakes her head. I’ve gotten very good at understanding what she means by her movements, and I can tell that when she shakes her head at this moment, she’s implying that she’d rather not see what I want to show her. She’d rather stay here in her room and ignore the fact that I’m here for her at all times.

She’d much rather just be an orphan….

“Oh come on,” I say playfully, forcing a smile and trying my best to imitate Adrienne’s personality and tone. “It’s really a big amazing surprise! I promise you’ll like it.”

Her hair falls in front of her face and she quickly brushes it away. She hops off her bed and stands near me, staring at the floor. I take this as a sign of her complying to follow me, and so I lead her out of her bedroom and downstairs to the piano room. I open the door to let her in. I guess I expected some sort of excited reaction when she sees the piano, but she just gives me a confused look.

Of course, she doesn’t even know what this is. Silly me. She approaches the large, wooden, black-painted instrument in mild interest and more confusion.

“It’s a piano,” I tell her, beckoning for her to go closer.

“Piano,” she repeats, her voice so delicate that it might break with a single interruption.

“Come on, sit on the bench. I’ll show you how it works.”

She obeys reluctantly and climbs onto the bench. Noticing that she’s not tall enough to see the keys while sitting down, I raise the bench and kneel down next to it.

“What it do?” she asks, staring in transfixion at the many white and black keys.

“It makes music,” I answer.

The way her face lights up at these simple words makes me feel a sudden flare of joy. A surge of giddiness. It was a bit intoxicating and sobering at the same time. Her smile, reminding me so much of her mother’s smile that I fell in love with instantly, leaves me paralyzed for a second. The happiness is overflowing in my heart.

“Like the music you make?” she asks excitedly, sitting up straighter and sitting down Bilbo the Dancing Bear next to her. “Where’s the stick?”

The stick? Oh, she’s talking about the bow for my violin. I laugh a slight bit; Hope is the only one who can get that kind of reaction out of me anymore. “Oh no,” I say smartly, “this is played in a different way. You use your hands to push down on these white and black keys.”

She raises her eyebrow in disbelief, then hovers her small hands over the keys, deciding carefully which one to play as though the fate of her piano education depended on picking the right first key. She then settles for D4 and presses the key down gently.

A soft and pretty sound fills the room and echoes through both of our hearts for a while. Her smile grows even bigger at the warm sound. She presses it a couple more times, then moves her hand to E4. Her reaction to a different sounding note is priceless.

“Woah!”

She then makes it a mission to press as many keys as hard and fast as possible, her hands going up and down the keys, making no pretty music, but making me feel like I’ve finally done something good as a father. Feeding her interest is good, right?

She looks so genuinely happy as she slams her hands on the piano, perhaps damaging it a bit with her harshness. I rarely see her smile like that.

However, she suddenly stops her manic and intense playing, her hands hovering over the keys again. Her smile fades a bit and she looks to me with a frown.

“It doesn’t sound pwetty like when you pway with your stick,” she says sadly.

I give her an encouraging pat on the back, wondering if it was a bit too much physical contact for Hope. “Not now, I suppose. But you’ll get good. We’ll get you a teacher and you’ll learn how to read music.”

“I don’t know how to read,” she says innocently.

“You’ll learn, Hope. You can do anything you put your mind to, you know that? You’re destined for great things.”

She doesn’t respond and looks back down to the keys, grazing them gently and benevolently.

“Did you hear me?” I ask for confirmation. “I believe that you can achieve anything. I’m here for you.”

She shrugs and plays each key one after another, left to right, each key higher in pitch than the last. She appears to make a mental note of this and ignores me expertly.

Well, that was a nice five minutes of bonding I guess. That’s the most words she’s ever said to me, so I have to be getting somewhere with this fathering thing, right?

Her hair falls in front of her face and she blows it away carelessly.

My heart falters at this simple action; I’ve never seen her do that before. She’s like Espérer in many ways.

At the end of the day, I must have gotten somewhere with her, for she called me “dad” right before heading off to bed.

I don’t think I’ve ever been good enough for anyone. I mean, why else am I so alone?

Father’s never around, and when he is, I stay distant in order to observe him in the safety of my bubble. I don’t really have friends either. Well, I guess Georges would be considered my friend, but we basically grew up together, so I consider him more of a brother that I never had.

I have a vague memory of someone from my early childhood, back when I was barely learning how to talk. It was some sort of man with splendid hazel eyes who always was around. But now, at the age of six, that’s all just like a far-off dream just occasionally calling to me and reminding me of a time when I didn’t feel so alone. Whoever I thought I was friends with is gone now. Maybe it was just my imagination.

Girls my age think I’m weird because I’d rather spend my time expanding my knowledge to absolutely everything I can. I’ve picked up on the hint that my father hopes I do great things, and so I plan to.

I just want to make my father proud….

So I learned how to play the piano, I’m taking dance lessons, Latin-speaking classes (after French and English, it will be my third language), art courses, acting classes. I’m going to school despite everyone thinking girls should stay home and learn how to cook and clean.

I’m learning how to read and write a bit early, but that’s okay. I can read a couple of words, but not fully comprehend the meaning of sentences.

Sometimes, I knock shyly on my father’s office door late at night in order to show him something I drew, or tell him a few words I learned, or ask if he has time to listen to a piece I mastered. Sometimes he’ll tell me that he’s way too busy at the moment and I can show him another time. Sometimes he complies, but he always looks like he’s only paying half attention. He never appears to be fully listening, or looking, or caring.

I’d much rather him just tell me he’s busy.

He’s so confusing. On some days, he’ll try to bond or schedule a day for us to “go out and have fun like other fathers and daughters do” as he put it. Other days, I wonder if he remembers that he has a daughter.

That is if I am his daughter….

I can’t be guarded by what others have said about me, my mother, and my supposed father. It’s all so confusing. These names that people throw at me as if expecting some reaction of familiarity are anything but familiar.

Charles? Alexander? Maximilian? Gilbert? Enjolras? John?

One day I got really confused by a specific name: Espérer.

That’s my name, isn’t it? My name is Hope, Espérer means hope. I asked Georges if he knew who Espérer was, but like me, the name was foreign to him. I asked Adrienne, who is like an aunt to me, and she turned oddly pale. She stayed silent for a while, then told me to ask my father when I got home.

So I did. That night, I knocked on his office door and came in. He was writing furiously about something, running his hands through his auburn hair repeatedly. He had already suspected that I came to ask him to look at a drawing a made or something.

“I really don’t have time right now, Hope, okay? But I’ll be finished soon. I think so at least. You can show me in the morning, okay?” he said quickly, his words slurring together a bit.

“I have a question actually,” I whispered shyly, clutching onto the doorknob, wondering if I should just leave.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, tearing his eyes off his paper. He looked so tired. I wish he’d take a break sometimes. He tells me a lot that ambassadors don’t take breaks. They have the work and responsibilities of two countries, in his case, America and France. “What do you need?”

I took a shy step forward, holding my hands behind my back and trying my best to maintain eye contact. My throat felt dry because of how ready he seemed to answer whatever question he was going to be asked; it’s not often I come to him for answers. I took a deep breath and spoke my question out as clearly as possible.

“Who’s Espérer?”

I still remember the look that crossed his face. It was utter heartbreak. The life seemed to have been drained from his eyes just at this name. His hands clutched tightly onto the closest thing he had, which happened to be the paper he was writing on, ruining whatever it was. Not that he seemed to notice at the moment.

He asked me politely to leave, not giving me an answer. I’m sure if I continued to pry, he’d tell me, but I don’t have the heart to do that. Not after I saw how depressed he looked. So I left without a single word, closing the door behind me.

That was the first time I heard my father cry. And it was through a door that neither of us could connect through.

Even though he never told me, the boys in school surely gave me enough clues. I came to the conclusion that Espérer is my mother. Well, was my mother. She’s not exactly around anymore, is she? I do not know exactly what happened to her, but some of my peers told me that she left me, abandoned me, and never turned back.

I think it’s odd and unfair that these boys’ parents tell them more about my mother than my father tells me about her. But I have gotten used to the fact that most of my life is under a big cloud of mystery. It’s a big, dark cloud that hangs above me at all times. Sometimes a small ray of sunshine will burst through the spacing, giving me a certain joy and happiness. Most times, I just realize that my life will never be normal.

As for these boys that I speak so much of, they’re kind of a pain. I go to school with them; I’m the only girl in school, making me an instant target. They’re a bit older than me — ranging from eight to ten— and they obviously have no filter on their mouths. I’m surprised their parents let them spit out the stuff they’ve said to me.

Today is no exception. School just ended and I basically ran out, hoping and praying that I can leave before I can get teased and taunted. But when I exit through the front doors, I see that my father has, as he does many times, forgotten to send a carriage to pick me up and bring me to Aunt Adrienne's house.

Dang it. This is the third time this month. The issue is not how I’m going to get to her house, for I know my way around Lyon city, and it’s not that long of a walk. The problem is that whenever this happens, the boys in school tend to follow me all the way to my destination, throwing whatever insult comes to mind my way.

Holding my bag close to my side and keeping my head down, I walk swiftly down the dirt path, hoping to hide within the crowd of parents who have come to pick their lucky children up. If only all of them were accompanied by a parent then maybe they’d leave me alone. I twist and weave between people, none of them giving me a second glance. When I reach the empty street and start going on my merry way, I let out a relieved sigh, thinking that maybe I escaped today’s torture. But just as I think this, I hear a voice coming from behind me.

“Hey, Hope!”

My spine stiffens and I feel my hands turn cold (a sign of me being nervous) at the horribly familiar voice.

I make the dumb choice to turn my head for a split second. I see the all too recognizable face of Marceau. His usually neat chocolate brown hair is slightly messy at the moment, maybe from having to catch up to me so fast. He slicks his hair back smoothly, revealing his dark and wicked eyes, glowing like the monster in the closet. A smirk plays on his face. He’s tall and looks older than his ten-year-old self. His fancy, velvet, dark blue frock coat matches his dark blue breeches. He dresses as he is: rich. Unlike him, I find it more humble to not wear my father’s money. But overall, if I had to judge him from an outside perspective, I’d say he’s handsome. That’s what most think of him at first glance anyway. But they don’t know him.

I do know him, and his personality doesn’t compliment his looks.

As always, he walks in front of a group of three or four other boys, all looking to him as a sort of leader. He launches the main attack and they get a few bites in or cheer him on, calling for more blood to be spilled.

I turn away and walk faster, keeping my head down.

“Hey! I called you!” Marceau shouts teasingly. I hear his footsteps get faster, and in a moment, he is walking next to me as though he were my friend. “How you doing, Hope?” he asks, his voice insincere.

“Fine,” I mutter, looking in the opposite direction that he’s standing.

“That’s not good at all,” he says as though me being fine was actually a really bad thing. “Let me see if my boys and I can change that for you.”

“Just leave me alone,” I say desperately, tears threatening to make an appearance.

“No can do, Hope. You’re kind of fun to taunt.”

His friends, walking in a line behind us like soldiers of sorts, let out a chatter of agreement. Realizing that I’m greatly outnumbered and completely alone, I stay quiet and allow them to do their daily business.

“So, Hope, I realized I never asked you what it’s like to be the daughter of a whore. Is it everything Espérer wanted?” Marceau says with a slick tongue. “You can’t exactly ask her since she’s, you know, gone.”

“She’s probably sleeping with some guy in Spain right now!” one of his friends calls from behind, earning a round of laughter from all the boys.

“I don’t get why you come to school, Hope,” Marceau continues, throwing an arm over my shoulder as though we were friends. It makes me uncomfortable and I step away quickly. “Don’t you think Espérer would want you to become a slut just like her? Word on the street is that your dad sells your body.”

I clutch onto the strap of my bag tightly. Excuse me?! Who said that?! Well, I don't exactly know what that means, but it sounds offensive. How do these rumors even start?!

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” one of Marceau’s friends says.

“Damn right!” another friend agrees.

“I suppose so,” Marceau agrees, coming closer to me after I expertly shoved his arm off me. “You’re a pretty girl. He can make some big bucks with you.” He touches my cheek with the back of his hand, making my skin crawl as though a thousand spiders were just under my flesh. I smack his hand away and pick up my pace.

Marceau and his friends laugh at my response, creating some sort of chorus of mocking laughter. It makes me even more uncomfortable than I was before. I’m not that far from Adrienne’s place. I try to ease my nerves by telling myself that I’ll be with Georges and we’ll just talk until he makes me forget who Marceau is.

“Guess she doesn’t like being touched there!” one of his pals say.

“Try somewhere else!” someone else suggests.

“Come on, Marceau! You know where dirty sluts like getting touched!”

My heart falters and I stop in my tracks. What are they trying to instigate?! I notice the look Marceau is giving me is different from what he usually gives me. It’s scarier. I step far back, holding my hand out in front of me as my first line of defense.

“Don’t you dare try anything!” I say harshly.

This, like most things I say, makes them laugh.

“Or else what?” Marceau asks. “You’ll tell your daddy? Which one?”

This earns him another round of appreciative laughter.

“She’ll probably tell Thomas Harrison, Marceau,” one friend considers.

“So what if she does?” Marceau asks carelessly, closing in and pushing my hand out of the way. “You think he really cares about Hope?”

I hate his words because they’re words I’ve thought of for a while. They are words that come in the form of thunder that comes rumbling from that dark cloud that floats above me.

This sparks a sudden anger in me and as Marceau takes another step towards me, I kick him where I know it will hurt. As he falls to the ground and his friends gasp in surprise, I run for the hills.

I go between houses and through the streets, praying that if they somehow decide to pursue me to teach me a lesson, they’ll find it hard to find me. Even when I’m far from where I last saw them, I keep going until my throat burns, the stitch in my side aches, and my breathing is hoarse and heavy.

I find myself on a vacant street with no passerbys. What a perfect place to be! Now I can do what I really need to do. I walk slowly over to a big tree, sit down at the base of the trunk, and begin to cry.

I don’t understand how anyone can be so cruel! How can someone say such things to another and sleep at night! As much as I despise Marceau, I never called out his father for the scandalous things that have been in the local gossip!

You’d think that if they keep saying the same things over and over again, it would start to get old and stop affecting me, but that’s the exact opposite of what I truly feel. For each remark they make, their words become more real. It cuts deeper into my mind. It unearths more questions that I can only get the answer from my father. Questions that I will never ask because I don’t want to make him cry.

Every day is a battle, and after each battle, my armor gets more damaged. My sword becomes dull. My energy is running out. When will it be time to wave a white flag?

My father is a good man, I try to believe this. He taught me that violence is not the answer. But I don’t think he understands that life doesn’t abide by these made up laws.

It’s a long time before my crying ceases, and even after it does, I stay put right here under this safe and comforting tree. I can’t see the dark cloud through the thick layer of bright green leaves. It’s there, I know, but if I don’t look at it, I can pretend it doesn’t exist.

I don’t keep track of time. I stay huddled with my knees up to my chest. I stare at a pretty white flower that has also grown here under the safety of this tree. It has odd red markings in its petals, looking as though blood or something was spilled on it. It’s odd. Just as I notice this, I feel an odd presence to my right.

Just as I’m about turn my head, I hear a voice.

“Nice place to cry, huh?”

My world almost shakes by these words. The speaker — an English speaker — has a scarily familiar voice. It’s a deep and strong, but warm and kind voice (slightly accented the way that father’s voice is) that I know I must have heard before. I can hear it in the back of my mind, but I can’t recall from where.

When I look to see who was crazy enough to just pop out of nowhere to sit next to me, I’m greeted by a man.

I become breathless because I feel like I recognize something about him. I don’t know what, but it’s something. He has curly, fudge-colored hair tied back in a small and low ponytail, reminding me of how those Americans like to wear their hair. His hairless face indicates that he might be a bit young, but he definitely looks mature. I mean, no boy would have a jawline so perfect; it looks like his face was chiseled from stone. His broad shoulders fit perfectly in his formal wear. He dresses like an American too. His waistcoat looks new and clean, the grey material complimenting him quite well. He looks big and strong, but not at all in an intimidating way. More like in a protective way. He flashes a winning smile at me, showing a set of nice teeth. It’s very familiar, but I don’t know where from.

But something that really catches my attention is his mesmerizing hazel eyes. They’re bright, compassionate, and mischievous, but in a good way. There are flecks of gold coloring in his eyes, standing out from the brown and green combination of his iris.

I continue to stare for a bit too long, my mouth gaping and my body still.

“Sorry,” he says, his smile growing, “this is random, isn’t it?”

I close my mouth and nod, not being so sure if I should trust this random stranger. I swallow hard and decide to be brave.

“It’s okay. I’m good.”

His smile falters and he gives me a concerned look. “Are you sure? What those assholes were saying was pretty harsh.”

By “assholes”, I’m sure he’s referring to Marceau and his gang. I didn’t see this mysterious man around during that encounter. Was he hiding up in a tree or something?

“Oh, yeah, well they do that often. I can ignore them,” I say with a forced and strained grin. What a big lie, Hope! You can never ignore them!

“Well, they made you cry, and I don’t like that.”

How sweet. Some stranger doesn’t like to see me get teased to the point of tears. That’s absolutely heartwarming. Well, time to retreat. Stranger danger. Sound the alarm!

I stand up, finding my legs unable to hold my body up for a second before I regain my balance. This mystery guy stands up alongside with me. Woah. He’s pretty tall. He’s about father’s height. But it doesn’t intimidate me like I think it should. I still feel safe even though when I look up to him I have a clear view of the clouds.

“Well, I should be off,” I say, acting as though I wasn’t bawling my eyes out merely ten minutes ago.

“Where are you off to, Hope?” he asks, following next to me and keeping up with my pace.

I feel an uneasy shiver run down my spine. Did he call me Hope?
    “How do you know my name?” I ask, stopping in my tracks to look up at him. Why does he look so innocent? It’s a bit annoying, but at the same time, intriguing..

“What do you mean?” he says, innocence dripping from his words. “We’ve known each other for a while! We’re friends!”

I raise an eyebrow. “What? Friends?”

“Yeah! I know everything about you!” he says, sounding enthusiastic with every word.

I shake my head. “Well, I know nothing about you.”

“Oh, well I’m a Scorpio and I like birds and if there’s a spider you need killing, I’m your knight in shining armor, and-”

“Very funny,” I interrupt his comical self-description. “And if you really must know, I’m heading home.”

“Thomas wouldn’t like that,” this man says, giving me a sideways look. “You know he would want you to go over to Adrienne’s place. Come on, we can go together.”

I feel a cold shiver and vividly notice that he doesn’t seem to be emitting any body heat. How does he know my father’s name? How does he know that I’m supposed to be over at Aunt Adrienne’s house?

I glare at him with piercing eyes, but he doesn’t seem at all put off by this. In fact, he chuckles a bit. Once again, it sounds a bit familiar. Instead of questioning him again, I give in and sigh heavily.

“I feel like I recognize you,” I mumble.

“Well, of course, you do!” he says, sounding cheerful now that I’m admitting this. “We’ve spent so much time together in the past!”

“But I don’t remember where from,” I continue.

“Oh!” he exclaims as though this were a surprise. “Really?”

I nod, “Really.”

“That would probably be my fault. I left a couple of years ago for reasons I can’t disclose. But I’m here now! We’re still friends, right?”

I take one look at that alluring grin and find a small smile growing on my face. He seems like an okay guy. And I need friends, so….

“Sure,” I agree, continuing to walk and complying to this guy’s wishes to go to Aunt Adrienne’s house.

“Great!” he cheers, following next to me. We find our way to a more crowded street as he praises me for how hard I kicked Marceau and says that he was planning to intervene before I ran away from the scene.

    As I describe how good it felt to get that kick in, people begin to turn their head towards me as though they thought I was talking to them. They give me weird glances as though I’m crazy and talking to myself, but I ignore them. I focus on this man and his smile. Wait, I don’t think I should refer to him as “this man”.

    “What’s your name?” I ask, cutting my story off quickly.

    “Oh, that’s right, you’ve probably forgotten my name!” he says, his smile gentle.

    “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t remember even ever knowing it.

    “Well, I’m John Ford, but my close friends and family call me Jacky, so you can too.”

    “Jacky?” I say, the name sounding perfect as it rolls off my tongue.

    “Yup! J-A-C-K-Y. Jacky,” he confirms, spelling it out for me. I smirk a tiny bit, feeling a burst of warmness burn from within as I repeat the name one more time.

    “Jacky….”

I’m reminded of how much I truly needed Espérer every time I look at Hope.

She's always been a very quiet child, I know this. I remember how concerned I was when she started learning to speak, then all of a sudden stopped. It was as though someone just switched off the language light in her head and she no longer knew how to say words.

Naturally, being the paranoid father I am, I took her to doctors all across the city, searching desperately for help. But each told me that she was perfectly healthy and perfectly fine. The only issue was her shyness.

Now, at a young age of seven, she does speak more often. It used to be harder to get her to speak, but in this past year, she’s really gotten more comfortable with me…. I probably shouldn’t assume that. She most definitely isn’t comfortable with me, but rather with talking to me. I’m pretty sure deep down, she doesn’t like me.

She talks to the imaginary friends that I’m sure she has.

I didn’t go to work today simply because I didn’t feel like it. I was hoping that this could be a time that Hope and I can bond, but I found myself busy. Enjolras Laurent is no longer asking for money, but he’s now asking for me to join the Rebel cause. Does he take me as stupid? Does he think that I’ll easily abide by what he said? Just because I eventually gave in and asked America for money to support the Rebels, doesn’t mean I’ll be persuaded into helping them once more.

These Rebels are starting a suicide mission and he wants me to join. Next, he’s probably going to ask me to join the Saviors as a spy for the Rebels. He's starting up, what he calls, the “Fifth Wave Of Rebel”, which is the wave of Rebels that consist of rich men like me (which Enjolras is known for hating) who act as spies.

He’s telling me to join the Rebels because “Espérer can’t fight for the cause anymore, so she needs someone like you to fight for her”. This f'er really knows how to play to my emotions. God forbid something happens to Hope and he sees that as his chance to use Hope’s name to convince me to bend to his wishes. I would do anything for Hope. It’s dangerous to an extent.

It’s the everyday story: I’ve been working all day and had absolutely no time to see Hope. I wouldn’t know if she ate today, or woken up this morning. Hell, if she was kidnapped or killed right now, I wouldn’t know for a solid few hours. So just to make sure that she’s still in this house (one of the servants informed me that Hope had once attempted to leave the house without my knowledge), I get up from my bed to go look for her. Yeah, I was feeling particularly lazy today so I’ve been writing here in my bed rather than in my office.
    First I check her room where I know she spends a lot of her time. Maybe she’s doing homework, drawing, or simply avoiding me. I climb the elegant and large staircase up to the second floor where her room is. I knock on her closed door and wait patiently for her to ask who it is as she usually does before inviting anyone in. But I quickly realize that it’s oddly quiet in her room. Usually, when she’s on her own, she’ll talk to herself, hum songs to herself, or have debates with her imaginary friends.

She’s never mentioned having an imaginary friend to neither me nor Adrienne, but I am assuming that she does. I mean, she can’t be talking to the air.

All her toys are still on the floor in their usual cult circle. Well, I found out that it’s not actually a circle that she’s created to sacrifice Bilbo. I one time peeked into her room and saw her sitting in the middle this large circle made by dolls and stuffed animals, speaking, as usual, to thin air. It’s a bit sad because it was like she was desperate to be the center of anyone’s attention. She always talks, then waits for an answer or a reply, then continues to talk as if someone responded.

It’s mildly concerning. I went to Adrienne for advice when I first noticed her talking to herself. She laughed it off and said that little girls often had imaginary friends when they’re lonely, even admitting to having had one herself when she was younger. If people made imaginary friends while lonely, we’d all have them, wouldn’t we? I know Adrienne’s lonely; her husband was killed during that attack on the Rebel town, Liberté. I’m lonely. I’m very, very lonely. Where are my imaginary friends?

I go back towards the staircase and lean over the railing, listening carefully to the sounds below me. I hear some servants cooking up dinner, others cleaning, other gossiping and giggling. But I don’t hear the sweet sound of piano music playing, meaning that she’s probably not in the piano room.

“Mary?” I call one of my servants. I hear some shuffling below, then I see the short-haired servant pop her head out from below me, her headscarf falling in front of her face clumsily for a second before she swiftly pushes it back behind her head. She smiles up at me kindly.

“Yes, Sir Thomas?” she responds politely.

“Have you seen Hope anywhere?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She nods swiftly, “As a matter of fact, I have! When I went to dust your office, I found her in there, spinning around in your chair.”

I smile a tiny bit just at the thought. I can picture her spinning circles in my swivel chair, giggling happily while her curly hair gets in her face, unaware of how dizzy she’s going to be. She’s still a child in heart, this I know. She tries to hide it, but her innocence has been highly protected by me.

“Thank you,” I say to Mary before leaning away from the railing. I go towards my office and creek the door open gently. I sort of expect to find her still spinning on my chair, but I guess you can only do that for so long before nausea makes you stop. Instead, I spot her sitting on the floor near my bookshelf. She's surrounded by books, some opened to the beginning, others closer to the end. She has, as she seems to like to do often, surrounded herself in a circle, but this time a circle of books rather than unalive objects that she considers friends. She is, as always, talking to the air around her.
    "I don't understand," she whispers. "What does that mean?" There are a few seconds of silence, then she exclaims, "Oh, that makes sense. Thanks!"

I wonder what her imaginary friend said. Whatever she imagined, I suppose. I continue to watch in confusion as she spins around, looking from book to book, absorbing whatever information she can from each one. Her eyes jump page to page, appearing quite confused by a certain book. She blows her hair out of her face and leans closer to it.

“What does that word mean?” she asks once more, pointing to a word on the page. “Cop-u-la-tion,” she sounds out slowly. “Copulation!” she says more confidently. For a second, I’m proud of her ability to figure out such a big word for her age and I smile, but that smile disappears when I realize what word she just read. Copulation!? Wait —

She flips through the pages and looks at the top of her new page, reading out loud. “Underneath hangs in a bag or a purse, two little balls, pretty hard, and the harder the better. They call them stones and—”

Okay, absolutely the hell not! I open the door forcefully before she can read any more, demanding that she gives me her attention with my sudden entrance.

"What are you doing?" I blurt out. I was far more loud that I intended to be and ended up scaring her a tiny bit, a tiny squeal escaping her lips. She immediately stands up when she sees me, her eyes wide with surprise. She’s holding a book in her hand.

She doesn't speak for a second and stares at me. She glances to her left, and then back at me. "Nothing." She says this in such an innocent way that it’s absolutely not innocent. But I can already sense her discomfort, so I probably shouldn’t make things worse by interrogating her. Instead, I pick up the book she was reading aloud.

"A dialogue between a Married Lady and a Maid," I say the title aloud. "Were you reading this?"

"Yes." She looks to her left again, then at me. "I mean no." I’m taken back by how quick she changed that, almost like someone told her to.
    "This is a bit of a complicated read for you," I say. Not to mention inappropriate, but I don’t think I should tell her that. “You were reading this?”

"I told you I wasn't reading. Someone was reading to me," she snaps, suddenly looking irritated. This is the biggest sentence I've ever heard her say to my face in a long time, and I can't help but feel like it was a step forward no matter how mad she may get at me. I know she practically despises me, so this has got to be an improvement. My joy that I got somehow quickly made me forget what she actually told me, so I focus back in, replaying in my mind what she said. And when I think about it deeply, it’s actually a bit disturbing.
    "Someone was reading to you?" I question, crossing my arms. "There's no one here."
    She looks to her left, then drops her gaze, appearing a bit disheartened. "You're right,” she admits in a monotone, her eyes a bit blank. “ No one was reading to me. I was... looking at the pictures."
    Funny. None of these books have pictures. But instead of calling her out, I decide not to question her anymore or she'll just stop talking. I pick up a few more books off the ground, looking at the titles as I put them on the shelves. Doctor Faustus, The First Book Of Lucan, Macbeth, King Lear, A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Thank God they’re not anything like A dialogue between a Married Lady and a Maid. What would I even do if she started to ask questions?
    "Actually, can I get that one?" she asks quietly before I can put Hamlet on the shelf. I look at the book, then to her. She keeps glancing to her left every now and then.
    "For what?" I question, wondering if she even knows what the title says.
    "I want to look at the pictures," she explains confidently and clearly as though she had been rehearsing this particular line over and over again. There are no pictures, but….

    I hand her the book, my heart beating a bit faster when I see her smile. I almost never see her smile. Then again, I'm almost never around her, so there isn’t much of an opportunity. So I’ve discovered another passion of hers: reading. Now I must find a way to feed her passion.

         I stuff A dialogue between a Married Lady and a Maid into the highest shelf where Hope will never be able to reach it, feeling a bit relieved that I don’t have to worry about her reading the rest of that book anymore.
    I sit at my desk, noticing how she's mumbling under her breath, continuing to glance at her left. "Sorry that I haven’t been around today," I say. She stops mumbling and simply looks at me intently, listening deeply. "I had stayed home with the high hopes to get to spend time with you, but that didn’t seem likely after I received a letter from some certain Rebels."

Most parents living outside of Paris refuse to even mention the Rebels. They keep it top secret and pray at night that the Rebel cause will slowly become less relevant. However, with the fifth wave of Rebels just around the corner, this isn’t likely.
    She shrugs after my apology and looks down at her book, seeming to love it more than she loves me. Before I can say anything else, she begins to walk outside my office, probably to get back to her bedroom where she will stay for many hours to come.
    Does anyone maybe happen to know how the hell to do this dad thing? I'm just pretending to know! In reality, I have my eyes closed while I’m flying high in the sky and praying that I land perfectly.

My worst fear is that I'm not going to be a good enough father.

    Just as she’s about to leave, a surge of courage courses through me, giving me enough confidence to try something that I normally would never even consider in fear that it might be too personal to her.

    “Hey, Hope,” I call after her.

    She quickly turns to me just as she’s at the doorway. She, for the millionth time today, looks to her left, then back at me. “What?”

    “Wh-What’s your favorite color?”

    She raises an eyebrow at my random question. “My what?”

“Your favorite color,” I say softly after swallowing hard. It’s such an odd question, but it’s odder that I don’t know. At her age, the most important and defining quality of a child is their favorite color. It can make or break a friendship. Not that she has any friends. I don’t know any of her favorites. Not her favorite food, animal, or season.

“Oh,” she exclaims as though barely understanding what I meant. She then shrugs shyly. “I don’t know. I don’t have one.”

“Really? Come on, you have to have a color you like more than others,” I say encouragingly. “I like purple.”

“Purple?” she questions.

“Yeah! You know, it represents royalty.”

She must have gained a bit of confidence after I told her what color I like, and she decides to come out of her shell just a tiny bit and test the water out.

“I like red I guess,” she says quietly. Her eyes glued on the air to her left.

Red? Just like her mother. Red quickly became the color of rebellion here in France. Men typically sport a red suit to show their support for the Rebel cause. Girls would wear red ribbons in their hair or around their waist. Children would be given tiny red flags to wave around. The men (and sometimes women) who are actually actively fighting as a Rebel tend to wear a red, white, and blue colored, flower shaped cockade over their heart. The whole flower was a symbol created by Espérer herself, inspired by the name of the first Rebels, called Les Amis des Fleurs. These were her friends…

“Red,” I repeat distractedly, forcing a small smile on to my face. “Why is that?”

She shifts her weight from one leg to another. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, well that’s okay. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

A shy grin finds a way on her face from this question and she takes a small step toward me. “I want to be a stage actress!”

I hesitate. Wait, really? A stage actress? Is it wrong for me to feel a little, I don’t know, upset? From the moment I held her in my arms, I pictured her studying law and becoming a politician just like I am. I know it would be looked down upon for her to get into politics since she’s a girl, but all the more to do it, no? To prove everyone wrong? I had plans to get her to America around the age of fourteen and enroll her into college to study law. I wanted her to be the first Congresswoman.

But she wants to perform on stage. Huh. I guess I should have seen this coming. She’s always been into the arts and especially loves her acting classes. And all these Shakespeare books she left here on the floor really proves her true interests. I want her to pursue something she loves obviously. Her dreams for herself comes before any dreams I ever had for her. But still, how far will she get with an acting career. And fine, I don’t like the idea of Hope prancing on a stage for everyone to just watch.

I must have stayed quiet for a bit too long because her smile fades and she gives me a concerned look. “Is there’s something wrong?” she asks.

I break eye contact, realizing that this is the shyness and anxiety she must feel when I try talking to her. How am I supposed to just tell her that I don’t think that’s a good choice for her to follow her dreams? Wouldn’t that make her hate me more than she already does? I just need to lay it on really lightly. As delicate as a butterfly landing on a flower.

“Nothing at all!” I assure her, cursing myself in my head by how frantic I sound. “I just always thought that you’d find interest in law.”

Her silver-brown eyes widen for a second in shock and I immediately regret saying what I said. Why can’t I just learn what to say and when to say it around Hope? You’d think I’d be good at it now, but I'm not. I even forget to keep it a low on the swear words sometimes.

She holds her book to her chest, her eyes flickering to her left. “Oh,” she whispers. “Okay then.”

F, you made a f up, Thomas!

Then, without a single word, she leaves the room, whispering to the air. Goddammit! It was going to well, then I just had to mess it all up!

Feeling disheartened and immensely guilty, I went back into my bed and replayed my words over and over again. I couldn’t get that out of my head for the rest of my day and I ended up giving myself a headache because of how many situations I created in my mind where our little encounter ended off perfectly okay. God, I need Espérer.

It was near sunset when I decide to actually set things right rather than let it pass. I need to tell her that I’m stupid and she shouldn’t take anything I say to heart. It would be best if she ignores everything I say as she usually does.

I assume that she’s in her room, so I get up from my bed and make my way up the stairs and to her bedroom. Per my usual protocol, I crack the door open just a slight bit and listen to what she’s saying before making my presence known.

I spot her on her bed with a book in her hands, flipping through the pages slowly and attempting to read any words she can. At first, I think it’s Hamlet. But I realize that this book is way larger and looks really heavy. I soon recognize that it’s another book from my personal bookshelf, but not just any book. She took a law book.

“What does this mean?” she asks.

For a moment, I thought she spotted me and was asking me. But instead, she leans the book towards her left as though showing it to someone.

“Malum in se,” she says out loud. “Oh! That’s Latin!” She pauses for a second, then laughs to no one. “Of course I know what it means! It means ‘evil in itself’. I’m just asking what it means in the legal world.” There’s an even longer pause. It’s like she’s having a conversation with someone, and it’s kind of eerie. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what it means! You said you took two years of law school before the Revolution started!”

Why is she reading that? My law books are way too complicated of a read to her! I don’t think children her age are even able to comprehend laws. She should at least wait until she’s twelve. That’s when I was planning to really introduce her to the political sphere.

“This is boring,” she says sadly with a long sigh, flipping the pages rapidly. She waits for a second, then speaks again. “Well, I'm doing this because dad wanted me to be a politician or something.”

Huh. She referred to me as  “dad”.

She's too much of a people pleaser. I've seen her cross oceans and climb mountains to impress someone she looks up to. But never did I think she'd want to please me of all people. It's something I don't deserve and never will deserve.

“I care,” Hope starts in a dignified tone, glaring to her left sternly (sort of just staring at the wall it seems), “because I want him to be proud of me. I want to be enough. You know that's all I've ever wanted! I want him to like me. Does that make sense, Jacky?”

I don't know what to focus on more: the fact that Hope thinks I'm not proud of her and don't like her, or the fact that she brought up that name for the first time in years in my presence. Jacky.

I don't know anyone named Jacky. I've only ever heard the name escape from her lips! I've asked her once who Jacky was, and she denied that she had any knowledge. It sounds like a very feminine name or a loving nickname.

“Of course I still want to be an actress, Jacky!” Hope exclaims. “But I have to put my dad's dream before my own, you know?”

Crap. That's the exact opposite of what I want.

“My dad works hard to make France a better country for everyone, including me!” Hope says enthusiastically, closing the law book and lying down in her bed. “The least I can do is make him proud. And I promise, one day, I will make him proud of me.”

I stare at her for a while longer, then walk away without giving her any indication that I heard every word she said.

I am proud of her, aren't I? I mean, she's so incredibly talented and smart. I feel suddenly guilty when I come to the conclusion that maybe I do want a bit more from Hope. I've always been a man of high expectations, and Hope is no exception. I know she is capable of doing great things, so I don't want her to stop at the actress line.

So yes, I'm going to let her pursue something that may not make her happy. But she'll understand in the long run.

Espérer would agree. I know she would.