The next few years were quite possibly the happiest of my entire life. Due to little Cedric de Chagny, my life had at last acquired some meaning; for the first time in my life, I felt that someone needed me. Another human being depended upon me and loved me; it left me in awe.

During the first few months of his life, Christine would barely part with the child. She was a protective mother in every sense, and I respected this more than she'll ever know, perhaps. None of us, not even Madame Giry, were allowed to hold Cedric for the longest time after that first night. She was quite focused, quite determined, and when she'd leave the dinner table to go and put him to sleep, she would have a very serious look on her face. It was as if she were set on doing this one thing right; as if motherhood was her final chance to succeed in life. As a child who's talent disappointed her father, an opera singer who gave up on her career too soon, a wife who was disloyal to her husband in her heart, and the fearful, failed companion to her Angel of Music, it was quite understandable why she would be so determined not to ruin this new relationship of mother and child. I worried for her and her exhausted state, but kept my distance.

At night however, I was with the child constantly. Though Nadir, Madame Giry and Christine remained oblivious, I was the sole reason that the child did not cry at night. When his mother was fast asleep, I would take the child in my arms and sing him soft lullabies that I wrote just for him, and play my violin by his cradle while he stayed very still and listened intently. I told him stories through song, legends and memories alike, and though he couldn't understand, my voice seemed to soothe him, and this therefor soothed me. It was I who first made him smile.

By his first birthday Christine has given in and allowed us to see more of Cedric. Madame Giry, Nadir and I would sit on the floor with him, allowing him to crawl back and forth between us, and Christine would lie on the sofa, smiling in a tired sort of way. She seemed to mature to me over those months. The responsibility of caring for another human seemed to change something in her, or at least, open her eyes a bit. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but she seemed less and less like a girl whenever I saw her. Soon the clothing that had once seemed awkward looked stunning on her. If only she had worn those dresses for me, instead of for gentlemen callers that started to reappear around Cedric's second birthday, I would be certain that it was a different girl that I was beholding.

The child himself was so intelligent, so gifted, that I was amazed.

He was stringing together coherent sentences before he was two, and would tell me the strangest stories and laugh when I'd seem confused. We'd run around the house playing the strangest games; I created for him a sort of alternative universe, in which both of our imaginations ran wild, and I filled his young mind with music, and magic, and adventure. Everyday our make believe world brought us closer and closer together, and everyday I began to feel more and more like he was my son.

He learned quickly, and refused to hardly acknowledge his inability to see. His thirst for knowledge seemed endless, and he would beg me to read to him, or tell him about distant lands, or explain how doorbells work.

He, like myself, was also drawn to music, and would sit with me at the piano without me asking him to, listening intently and leaning his head against me. It was one day, when he was almost three, that we were sitting at the piano when he touched my arm, making me jump.

"Can I play?"

He grinned, and his eyes, unknowingly looked to the left of me.

I touched his face gently with my gloved hand and directed him to where I was, staring deeply into the glazed pale blue orbs that were his eyes. He continued to smile.

I pet his hair affectionately. "Of course you can. Here, sit on my lap. Let me show you where to put your hands."

He was very creative. He soon instructed me to play three bass notes over and over, while he repeatedly played a strange melody, pressing his index fingers to one key at a time. It didn't sound half-bad.

He clapped his hand with glee, and buried himself in my chest, hugging me. It was at this very moment that I sensed Christine's presence behind us.

"Are you my father?" Cedric asked, his voice muffled by my ruffled shirt he was pressing his face against.

I glanced up at Christine. Her face was white.

I sighed, and smiled sadly. "No, Cedric. I am only Erik."

He was biting my shirt like a deranged puppy dog, and giggling as I spoke.

"Hey!"

I picked him up and ruffled his hair, and his high pitched young laughter was beautiful. I bit his shirt right back, and shook it in my mouth, making growling noises like a dog, and he was laughing so hard now that he could barely breathe. I laughed as well, as did Christine, staring at us both as if we were insane.

Cedric blindly felt for my face, and put a small hand on my cheek. He scowled, no doubt because it was scratchy from neglect of shaving on my part, but he was smiling again in no time. His hand still in place, he said,

"Are you my Erik then?"

I laughed, but he waited patiently for the answer.

"Are you my Erik?"

What a peculiar child he was…I was certain of the answer though, even if it was a strange question.

"Yes. I am your Erik."

He smiled, as if relieved. Christine cleared her throat.

"Cedric, you need to take a nap, darling."

"No!" He clung to me with a curiously tight hold, tears forming in his lifeless eyes, "No, I want to stay with my Erik!"

She sighed, her face going whiter still. "No, you need rest, dear…"

He was full out crying now. "I hate you! You can't take me!"

I gripped his arm and gave him a light shake.

"Cedric, don't talk like that. Your mother loves you and you love her. Now, go to rest for a little bit, and we'll play again when you wake up. If you don't sleep, I won't teach you anything more on the piano."

He nodded obediently and followed Christine out of the room.

I went back to playing, and was deeply involved in a piece by Bach when I heard Christine return. She was obviously crying, and came over to collapse into my arms. The image of the grown woman shattered like a fragile champagne glass as she sobbed into my shoulder.

"He hates me, Erik…he loves you, but he hates me…"

I patted her hair awkwardly.

"Oh Christine, he didn't mean that…"

She looked up at me with teary eyes, suddenly wide.

"But in a sense he does…Erik, how do you do it? Everyone loves you so…you have such charm, such ability…I feel so insignificant. How can I expect him to love me when he has you? I'm so shallow and selfish, and you're…you."

I laughed. "Everyone loves me? You must be mistaken, my dear."

"Madame Giry does…and Nadir, and now Cedric as well."

It was amazing how normal this felt. How much I suddenly felt like a young husband reassuring my wife, like a normal family. Perhaps that's why the words accidentally slipped from my mouth.

"Christine, you are his mother. Believe me, he loves you…and I love you too."

She kissed the non-deformed side of my face and whispered in my ear, "Oh but you shouldn't, Erik…you shouldn't…"

It was too late to take it back. The realization I refused to even consciously recognize revealed itself despite my efforts. I was not any closer to being over this fickle girl than I had been three years ago.