All of them are about a kid of theirs as a young child, but I can't imagine that very well.
Freddie Jane dug through box after box of family history searching for a sleeping bag. The floor of the attic creaked underneath his weight. The air was musty and dust danced in the light lazily filtering through the sky window. The sun was tucking itself behind the horizon for the night.
Growling with frustration Freddie tipped the box labelled 'Camping' upside down, tipping all the contents onto the dusty wood of the floor.
His dad had said it was up here somewhere but he couldn't find it for the life of him. Freddie's eyes wandered, he ran his hand over the old battered books clustered in an old bookcase pushed into the corner which had caught his eye. Crouching close to the floor he put out a hand, grabbing a nearby box to steady himself. Hooking a finger through the spine he pulled out a large red book, the stained text block complete with a thick layer of dust. The faded lettering read 'The Dream Dictionary'.
Sudden terror and shock rang through Freddie's bones as the wooden box he was leant on slipped from under his weight and slammed into an old dismantled cot with a crack.
Freddie head spun to check if he had broken anything. There was a large dent in one leg of the old coat, but apart from that no harm done.
Then he went to check the wooden box, wiping off the dust with the sleeve of his jacket. Deep blue and purple in colour with tiny pale yellow swallow silhouettes soaring through the varnish. In a beautiful, delicate white scrawl was the name 'Charlotte Anne'. The box was the shape and size of a small treasure chest and somewhat whimsical to look at. It was obvious to Freddie it had been made with a lot of love and thought. A child's toy box? It was clearly a child's. The use of the Christian and middle name suggested it was first given to this 'Charlotte' as a newborn before a nickname or shortening was adopted by those closest to her, as it was also obviously that whoever had taken the time to have it made cared deeply. The question was why was it in their attic?
Undoing the clasp, Freddie reached in to pick up an old birthday card. It was simple, wishing the girl a happy 4th birthday. Freddie found first a small pair of baby boots, then a book of fairy tales, and old teddy bear with a chewed ear. It began to dawn on him who these things must belong too when he found the photo; His father looked so young with his unruly blonde curls messy and blonder than Freddie had ever seen them as he sat on a bench under the sun, the bags under young Patrick Jane's eyes conveyed his tired state but his blue irises swam with joy as he clutched a parcel wrapped in a yellow blanket, a tiny fist waving above the fabric. His father looked so happy, so young holding Charlotte, had he looked that happy holding him? 'Charlotte', so that was her name; his father had never said and Freddie had never wanted to ask.
The ladder creaked as someone climbed speedily up toward him, "Freddie?" His dad called tensely, "Your mom heard a crash, you okay?"
Freddie's words caught in mouth for a second, he let out an unconvincing, "Uh… yup."
His father clambered the last stretch of the ladder and onto the attic floor, "What happened, huh?"
It was too late for Freddie to move now, even if he hadn't frozen.
It was if the rest of the world went still in its own silent homage as Patrick Jane's face fell, he quickly collected himself again, tightening his jaw before slowly making his way over to sit in front of the box with his son. Pulling up his grey slacks a bit so he could sit cross-legged more comfortably.
"I suppose I had to tell you about her sometime, it's only right." Freddie's father concluded, patting his son's knee.
"I didn't mean to pry dad." Freddie dropped the photo back in the box and placed his clenched fists in his lap.
"You're not, it's not like it was locked." His father sighed.
"I didn't know her name until now." Freddie said softly.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you much," Patrick sighed, "I don't like to…"
"I know. I just always wondered what she looked like, whether or not we looked alike." Freddie ran a hand through the thick dark curls on his head slowly, biting his lip.
"You got your mothers colouring, sharp features like her father," His father placed and arm around Freddie's bony shoulders, "I see Charlotte in you though, somehow. You both got the Jane curls." Patrick Jane squeezed Freddie's shoulder in comfort.
They sat in silence a minute; Patrick picked a crumpled photo of Charlotte on her first day of preschool, and stared.
"How did you do it, dad? Have a new family after… you know?"
"It took a long time," His father's eyes grew darker, clouded by memories, "But when I was ready. She was still there, your mom, I messed her around for so long. I worried her, ran away more than once, grew unbearably distance sometimes, but she never gave up on me, or expected anything back. No one had ever treated me like that before." Freddie's dad stared at the ground as if he still couldn't' quite believe how well he'd been treated.
"I love you dad," Freddie murmured, "I'm sorry I can be such a pain."
"Come here Freddie," Patrick held his son closer and buried his head in Freddie's curls for a short moment, "Love you too Little Man. And I'm glad you turned up."
Deep down Jane knew if Freddie had been a baby girl with blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he wouldn't have handled the whole 'having another baby' thing with quite so much ease. But Freddie was born with pale cheeks, a dark tuft of soft hair, and deep soulful green eyes. The moment the nurse had handed Freddie to him he'd known, this wasn't a redo, it was a fresh chance. Still, he slipped the photo of Charlotte into his waistcoat.
After Freddie had found the sleeping bag (In his cupboard no less) Patrick had a chance to think about the talk he'd had with his eleven year old son. He was brewing himself a cup of tea when she walked into the kitchen and dropped a pile of papers on the breakfast table. Pulling out a chair to sit down.
Jane decided the pot was down and poured him and Teresa a mug. She brushed her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, her brow furrowed worriedly. He placed her mug down in front of her and sat down at the head of the table, so she was to his right. Jane reached out to capture her hand, she didn't even glance up. He opened her clenched fist up gently and placed the mug in its grasp.
Teresa Jane looked up, her frown melting away.
"Drink up Lisbon." Patrick Jane smiled, leaning back in his own chair.
"Tea doesn't solve everything, Jane." She replied.
Patrick smiled a little, leaning over as if to kiss her on the nose, but instead he snatched the papers she had been reading out of her reach, and held them behind his back, "And now?"
"Hey! I need those." Teresa protested.
"Drink your tea first." Patrick smiled smugly, "Then I'll give them back."
Patrick Jane's eyes wrinkled as he smiled wider, his wife's face unable to withhold the need to smile too…
'Definitely not a redo'.
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