FORTY-THREE
After dinner, her father succeeds in cornering her. He leads her to the refreshments table, out of earshot of those mingling about the hall.
He takes his time refilling his glass, and she takes the opportunity to look for Maria.
Finding her conversing with some of the older aunts, she wishes it were as easy for her as it is for Maria. Maria, despite having been uneasy about seeing the extended Kazanari family, looks quite at ease. It is not entirely a mask; her smiles are genuine.
Maria adapts so easily.
That is to say, Maria does not resist so much.
"Do you think—" she stops abruptly, realizing that she had been about to ask her father about parenting advice. Flummoxed, she clears her throat, attempting to backtrack, "What do you think of the celebration?"
She grimaces at the inane question, but it will have to do.
He takes a sip of his drink before answering.
"I was forty-three when you were born. I was in between—not young enough to be flexible, nor old enough to be understanding. Perhaps that was my mistake," he says, and he does not look at her, but rather across the hall, where Maria is now bouncing a cheerful baby in her arms.
Neither of them is good at talking about elephants in rooms—it is the only excuse she has for busying herself with serving another drink.
But he knows she listens. "It is a typical question," he muses, "nearly a rite of passage, I would say. Perhaps, if you ask yourself this question, it automatically implies that you will be a good parent, whatever that may entail." He sighs, and his eyes nearly drift shut.
Today, he is old. Old enough to be understanding.
"Good intentions… and love, do not a good parent make."
Precisely what she has feared. She stares at the red wine in her glass; she sees her face, so anxious and fearful and already regretting what she will inevitably do in the future.
"It is, however, a good start," her father continues. "The rest?" He shrugs. "Do not make the same mistakes. You know what I did… and what I did not do. Listen to your daughter—and let her know that yes, you hear her."
He begins to walk away; she knows that is all he can tell her.
"Father," she calls, and he turns to her. "I am glad to call you such."
He smiles a smile she has not seen since she was a very little girl.
a/n: Typical new-parent angst and some more Mr. Kazanari. It comes and goes, y'know?