Author's Note: First of all, as always, thanks to adina for the beta and for throwing around all the suggestions for names in email after email. Secondly, big thanks to hrlo for allowing me to share her inspiration—if you want to read another story based on this poem, go read her "Father's Day." Finally, the poem itself is "Those Winter Sundays," by Robert Hayden.

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

Logan paced for the third night—morning, actually—in a row. Back and forth across the living room, through the kitchen, up and down the hallways, the crying baby cradled in his arms. Rocking her didn't work—only walking seemed to ease the tears and calm the wails that racked the tiny body. Only the tight swaddling of a blanket and the firm grip of her father's arms holding her to his chest turned the cries into whimpers and the whimpers into sighs and the sighs into tiny, sniffling snores.

Still, he held his baby girl—his Bethany Anne, with lungs that had to take up half her little body, for the amount of sound she could make—pacing through the night and into the early hours of the morning. Still, he whispered into the sparse golden curls on her head; still, he ran a finger down her cheek, smoothing away the clammy sheen of sweat that had broken out on her face.

These were the moments he couldn't miss—the moments he wouldn't pawn off. As tired as he would be in the morning, he wanted it to be his own touch that helped soothe his daughter and calm her back to sleep. He wanted it to be his sacrifice that allowed his wife to sleep. He wanted it to be his voice singing the lullabies, whispering words of love, dreams, and promises.

Right now, it was just the three of them, cocooned in their little world of diapers and feedings and the wonder of watching a baby sleep. Right now, they were the only ones who existed, and the outside world floated by, dropping in only occasionally in the form of grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and a few business associates, coming to give their best wishes and congratulations. The visits were appreciated, no doubt, but they were interruptions nonetheless. Even though their eyes were shadowed from a lack of sleep, it was still euphoric, blissful.

The nanny would begin working sooner rather than later, and life would go back to the routines of work and business and family, but even then, Logan was determined to do it differently than his own childhood. He wanted to erase any shred of doubt from the very beginning. He never wanted his children to wonder where he was, or whether he loved them, or if he wanted them. He wanted them to know that he loved them when they cooed and giggled as well as when they screamed and flailed.

He knew already—and he already hated the fact—that business would sometimes take him away. He knew that there would be days when he'd work late; weeks when he'd be away on business. Even now, holding her in the darkness, feeling like he would give anything to be there forever, for everything, he knew that he wouldn't always be able. There would be recitals that he would miss and days where he would connect with his children with nothing more than phone calls, but they would, he swore, be as few as possible. They would be the exception, not the rule.

Annie whimpered, snuggling deeper into his arms, and a tired smile crossed his face. Four weeks, and she already had him wrapped around his little finger—he would do anything for her. Four weeks, and his world had shrunk to two women, this tiny girl and her mother, and everything else paled in comparison to what he had within the walls of his own home.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

He insisted that it was his favorite day of the year, and indeed, it had been a Huntzberger tradition for Dad to wake them up on the first day of school since Annie's first day of kindergarten, when Logan had insisted on being the one to wake his daughter. She was so excited, she had barely fallen asleep at all the night before, and when she had, it had been with the strap of her bright pink Barbie backpack clutched in her hand, and he was certain that she would wake early. That's why he'd been in her bedroom at 5:00—he had to beat her; had to watch his baby girl open her eyes on her first day of school; had to see every implication of the day hit her face, one realization after another.

As he stood leaning against the doorjamb seven years later, watching her sleep, his mind wandered back across the mornings of his own school days—many of these mornings spent in boarding school dorms, waking up to unfamiliar roommates and dorm parents that were still just strangers. Those first days of school had been filled with bravado and false confidence, sticking with old friends and making smart remarks, just to get through the day. He couldn't even remember his first day of kindergarten. He wouldn't have been in a boarding school yet, but apparently it wasn't a big enough deal to make a fuss over—it was just another day. No doubt he and Honor had been woken by a nanny, fed by a cook, driven by a chauffeur, and escorted into the classroom by a teacher. No wonder he had never wanted to wake early on those mornings.

Of course Annie had her days when getting her to school was like pulling teeth, but the reasons were things to avoid at school, rather than at home. A fight with a friend, a test not studied for, a crush to be avoided, an assignment to dodge—but those were never the excuses she used. Logan knew every excuse in the book, and he knew that the ones he hadn't had to field yet, he would. Annie was too creative and headstrong to use only the typical excuses to skip. Or to try and skip, at least—but wasn't it the right of every twelve-year-old to try and get out of school at least once or twice a year?

Every now and then, she got away with it; unbeknownst to her, it was almost always in a clandestine Mom-and-Dad alliance, realizing that she needed a "mental health day," deciding to let the excuse slide, just once—and she never got to use the same excuse twice. If nothing else, it kept her creative juices flowing.

Still, under the young woman that was rapidly taking the place of his baby girl, there still lay an excited five-year-old, unable to sleep. That little girl didn't show her face often, but on the first morning of school every year, she made an appearance. Something about the idea of a fresh start and a chance for something completely new brought her out, and Logan wanted to cherish that one morning of the year when he knew that it would be a stretch to beat her awake.

This was the morning when they would all sit around the breakfast table, the conversation filled with speculation about classmates and teachers and subjects. The first day's outfits were carefully selected the night before, with help from Mom, and extra time would be taken in the morning, especially now that Annie was in junior high, to look extra-sophisticated and grown-up. Breakfast was a real, sit-down meal, rather than granola bars and bowls of cereal grabbed on the way out the door, and the anticipation in the house was palpable.

He knew, especially by now, that there would be far too many mornings when he would have to drag Annie out of bed. There would be mornings when it would take the combined efforts of both her parents plus the nanny to get her off to school, but for one morning, she was still excited. Today, she was still unencumbered by the pressures of being twelve and the uncertainty of finding herself in the social hierarchy of pre-teen girls.

For one morning, and one morning only, she let both her parents drive her to school and drop her off at the front door, and even though she didn't let them actually kiss her goodbye, she let them wave from the front seat of the car. Then, every year, Logan and his wife spent a leisurely morning in a coffee shop before going to work just in time to break for lunch, reminiscing over the days of diapers and plastic toys; first days of school, loose teeth, and first crushes. Then the conversation inevitably turned to their dreams of the future, of college and careers; of boyfriends, first dates, weddings, and grandbabies; and somehow, they would always end up talking of their children's destinies. Destiny beyond being a Huntzberger, beyond fulfilling a family obligation; but a fulfillment of a hope and a dream inherent in every child, whether or not there's a family name to back it up.

No matter how busy he got, he was there for that first day—for that early morning anticipation, watching her sleep, watching her wake up. This day was sacred in the Huntzberger household, and their traditions were firmly adhered to, and would continue to be, even when she got old enough that it truly wasn't "cool" any more and she protested even harder. In fact, Logan was almost looking forward to Annie's first day of high school, when she would be a full-fledged teenager, far beyond the desire to have anything to do with her parents, and he could embarrass her in that way that only fathers can. This day—this was Dad's day, in a way more intimate, encouraging, and special than even Father's Day could ever be.

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

It broke Logan's heart the day he told Annie that she needed to work in the family offices, at least for a while. She was nineteen, and he had struggled long and hard with the family obligations, and in the end decided that, while she could make her own decisions in the long run, she needed to be guided along that path. As much as he hated to admit it, part of that guidance included a stint in the Huntzberger business after college.

He knew she hated him for it, but he really believed that she would hate him more if he didn't do this. He and his wife had discussed this, staying awake in the dark of their bedroom, discussing their children's futures under cover or darkness and in the shelter of each other's arms, coming to the decisions that they needed to make together.

Those were the vulnerable hours. The hopes and fears and dreams came to the surface then; these emotions that, during the day, needed to remain ever-so-slightly hidden under a surface of confidence and wise decisions. Only in these hours could Logan question the decisions made in the public eye and admit that, just like every other parent of teenagers, they really had no idea what they were doing.

It was there that their plans were made and their solidarity reinforced; it was there that they worked out the stand that they would present, united, to their children and to the world. And, in the case of their eldest daughter, there that they came to the decision that she needed this.

Annie screamed, she slammed doors, she froze him out, yet he stood his ground. What else could he do? His heart broke every time she yelled, every time she told him she hated him, but he knew—deep down—knew that this was the right path. He knew she'd choose a different way—he knew it in the way fathers so often know their daughters better than they know themselves—but if she didn't try it, she would always wonder. It would always be her "what if," and she needed to be cut loose without the guilt.

She would know, throughout the entire two years that she would work there, that leaving was always an option, that her name didn't determine her path. That none of his children's names determined their paths in life. In the end, if she chose to stay, he'd welcome her into the business with open arms, but he'd be able to do it with a clean conscience, knowing that she was making the decision because she really wanted to be there.

He had a gut feeling that she wouldn't, though. As much as she loved the family, and as much as she didn't want to let him down, she didn't really want to be in the newspaper business. It wasn't her.

His own rebellion had been against the forced demands, not against the industry itself. Even at twenty-three, Logan had known, when he was willing to admit it to himself, that he would love the work; he'd just resented being forced into it. It suited him, though, and once he was able to find a balance between his father's demands and his own priorities, he flourished, and so did the business.

Annie, however, wasn't passionate about it. She'd grown up around newspapers, just as he had; she'd had parents who loved journalism, and she'd seen first-hand the excitement and adrenaline that propelled it all forward, but it didn't grab her the same way. She was compelled by something different; her intelligence and love of learning were channeled in different directions. Her talents lay in other areas—Logan could see that clearly, and despite the accusations she spit at him on an almost daily basis, he wanted her to follow that. He just wanted her to know, so that she would be sure—so that she would be able to throw herself headfirst, without abandon, into following her own dreams, and those dreams would be his dreams for her, too.

She railed at him, claiming that she was an adult and that she could make her own decisions, but he knew that at the end of the day, she would give in, because he was still her father, and she would still respect that, no matter how long it took to get there. He only hoped that in the long run, she would realize how necessary it was and how grateful she should be that she'd had the chance to try it out.

What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

But even if she didn't, that didn't matter. Annie was his little girl, and even if she pretended otherwise, she remembered her Daddy's arms rocking her to sleep as a toddler. She remembered piggyback rides and stories read, cookies baked, and breakfasts in bed made for Mommy on Mother's Day. She remembered waking up every year on the first day of school to see him standing over her bed, running a hand lightly down her cheek to wake her up and then tickling her until she couldn't breathe.

She remembered birthday morning surprises, and finger-painted masterpieces framed on the wall of his office, and dates for just the two of them. She remembered catching Mom and Dad steal kisses and intimate moments when they thought the kids weren't looking—and she remembered watching her parents kiss playfully and touch affectionately when they were looking, covering their eyes with their fingers and squealing about how gross it was. She remembered comforting mugs of hot chocolate in the kitchen after disastrous dates, and she remembered the slight moisture in his eyes the day she moved into her college dorm.

Deep down, she knew, and even if she couldn't thank him yet, she would someday.

After all, she was nothing if not Logan Huntzberger's daughter.