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Henry has been staring helplessly at the oven for more minutes than he has cared to count for.
This is his second time trying his hand at the pastel azteca recipe he got from Abuelita Alma the last time she visited, when she tasted his guacamole and gave an approving nod, muttering things with Oscar’s sister about how there was ‘ still hope for this white boy ’ in fond Spanish. Henry had just shed a few tears, but that was a secret not meant to get out of the four walls of their bedroom.
Just as his Stetson-themed cooking timer rings to signal his turn to get the pastel out of the oven, he hears the front door being slammed shut, two sets of steps roaming around the house, one more aggressive than the other, and then the slamming of another door. Oh, the mystery of teenagers.
“Daddy?” Elena yells from where Henry is pretty sure, is one of the couches in the living room.
“In the kitchen, darling!” Henry calls back.
Sometimes he still marvels how much his life has changed since Alex crash-landed into his carefully curated sham of a life at Kensington, all mischievous smiles, beautiful chin dimples and a horrifying amount of buttercream.
He still remembers Mary’s reprimands about Bea and his loudness, not fit for a pair of royal off-springs and their expected decorum. Henry has always delighted in building his home with Alex, as chaotic and as anti-Mary as it was bound to be with the two of them and their respective families; their beautiful children had just followed their steps.
“Daddy, were you careful not to drop another eggshell in that pastel azteca?” Elena says with all the innocence of an eight year old hitting his dad in a sore spot. “You know, considering it doesn't have any eggs in the recipe.” She even bats her eyelashes to distract him from the fact he's being bullied by his own daughter.
He decides it's not worth to argue again that he really thought the eggs would make it all more compact, and that she has no business judging him when she once tried to break her dad’s heart by microwaving the water of his tea, like a miscreant. Instead, he turns to the oven to take the pan out and watches from the corner of his eye that Elena is far enough from the heat.
“So, how was school? Do you know what happened to your brother?”
Henry notices that Elena winces, and tries to cover up by coughing loudly and incredibly fake, but this is not the first time it has happened, and Henry is just starting to untangle the thread a bit in his brain.
It helps that Elena comments, “School was fine. I have homework, but I think you should talk with your child.” She says this with an arched brow that is so like her Tia June, it becomes impossible to forget where Elena’s egg came from.
Then, she leaves to the backyard to procrastinate doing her homework as she always does, until Alex gets home and they can double-body each other in Alex’s office.
It's curious, catching the little things of their kids that resemble each other, like Elena’s stubbornness and passion to do things that make him wonder about other universes and meeting a little Alex with the same child-like innocence.
That is probably the reason why Henry finds himself hesitating in front of a recently slammed door of one of the rooms. There is something nagging him at the back of his brain that he’s yet to catch, but Henry doesn't want to delve too deep into it, in case he's completely off the mark and is actually making assumptions, which, as he's learned with his own kids, is the first thing you mustn't do.
It's just a door, he can knock.
Or he can be saved by his own child opening the door, taking in Henry’s raised fist with surprise, before sighing dejectedly and going back to sit on the bed.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo.” Henry should've prepared for this. He should've waited to talk with Alex and then plan this talk with the three of them present. Oh, buggering hell. “Did the door do something to you? Do you want me to talk to it?” He cringes at his own idiotic joke, but his hands are kind of sweating and he can't believe he’s the adult here.
Still, it gets him an, albeit unwilling, quirk of a smile, which seems like a win in his book. “Going to use your renounced title to put the fear of God into it?”
Curse his and Alex’s sarcasm for making their kids beautiful smart-arses that take the piss on their own poor parents.
Henry sniffs haughtily. “I will remind you that I did that only once , and it wasn't my fault that some teacher thought he could bully you because of your family’s politics .”
That gets him a solemn nod. “Apparently, Mr. Johnson had it coming long before that, but it worked when you went all ex-Prince on them… Which is horrible… Is that nepotism?”
Henry still feels kind of bad about it, so he thinks it's time to reroute the conversation. “Why don't we talk about what's bothering you now, huh?” He tries to sound as gentle as possible, knowing that talking about feelings to a teenager might be as well as trying to approach a scared animal. At any moment, they could lash out. “You know you can always talk with your papá or me, right? Whatever it is, we're here for you, darling.”
The statement is received with eyes glazed over by unshed tears, and Henry feels a bit like dying. Christ, he just wants to wrap both their kids and his husband on something like bubble wrapper, just so they can always be safe and sound near him. It sounds completely horrible in practice, but he just wants to take their own pain at any cost, even if it has to become his. He can take it.
“Dad, I-” a sob, “How was your day at the shelter?”
That makes Henry pause for a second, just so he can rearrange his mind a bit. “Good. I was there just for a couple of hours as we helped Kay settle in their room.” He takes the hand moisturized with a couple of tears, and cleans them as gently as possible. “Come on, kiddo. Talk to me.”
“Were you part of the judges for the shelter’s creative writing contest?”
Well, that wasn't really what he was expecting, but still. “No. I gave the idea, but I wouldn't be able to choose when I even helped with the punctuation of a few kids, so Pez decided to put a committee of publishers, editors and professors alike. Why?”
There's a sigh, and Henry’s not sure if it's relief or disappointment.
“I signed up for it… anonymously… and I won.”
“Oh, my darling!” Henry can't help but hug his kid. “I’m so proud of you! What was it about?”
He doesn't know what he says, but the next thing he knows, there are tears running down the shoulder of his shirt and sobs that get interrupted by hiccups every few seconds. Henry has never felt so helpless and heartbroken to hear his child crying like that.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but my brain gets all weird sometimes, and I know I’m safe with my Pa and you, but sometimes I’m scared I’m disappointing the family and even Grandpa Arthur, because I’m not who you were expecting I’d be and even though I tried so hard , everything felt wrong and I couldn't-” Every few sentences are interrupted by either a hiccup or a sob, and Henry just holds as tightly as possible, while also letting the tears run free at his own frustration.
“Oh, my dear darling. You will never disappoint your family.” Henry whispers brokenly into his child’s hair. “You’re so precious to all of us. There is not a single thing any of your relatives wouldn't do to keep you safe. I can assure you, even Grandpa Arthur has been taking care of you from wherever he is. He was always like that, and I know he would've loved you to the moon and back.”
“And if I wasn't the grandson he expected? If I wasn't… his grandson at all?”
Henry just squeezes his child tighter, carding through unruly curls to help with relaxation. “Then that would be perfectly alright, darling. Your Grandpa Arthur already has enough grandchildren to make a polo tournament. I don't think he would really mind if one of them didn't conform with gendered terms.”
“Uh… And what-if-he-got-another-granddaughter?” She mumbles it quickly on the nape of his neck, and Henry has to take a moment to understand what he heard.
The smile that lights up Henry’s face at the thought could probably be observed from space. “Oh, he would be insufferable. Ask your Auntie Bea. Grandpa Arthur had such a soft spot for her.” Henry can feel the quirk of a smile forming at the nape of his neck, and he has to confirm the entire truth. “Would that be something you think would fit you? Being Papi and Daddy's other princess?”
“I wrote a poem for the contest.” His child, like Alex, has the tendency of having half the conversation in their head and jumping from one point to another. They might be all connected at the end, so Henry has learned to deal with it. “It was about legacy and names and depressing stuff, actually. You know about that time Virginia Woolf wrote about a hypothetical Shakespeare sister? Nevermind, of course you know.” At this, she waves her hand away and Henry is sure she is rolling her eyes. “It was about womanhood and depression, legacies and names and… well, and transness.”
Henry remembers Pez giving him the digital manuscript with all the winners’ writing, and something clicks in his brain. “ The poet’s heart , wasn't it?”
She retreats from the embrace to look directly at Henry. “‘... who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body? ’ I don't know, it seemed fitting,” she shrugs. “I thought you weren't part of the judges committee.”
“Pez sent me the first manuscript while everybody works on it becoming a full anthology, because he knows how excited I’d been about getting to read the final piece.” Henry takes her hands again, and even through the tears, he can't help the beaming smile stuck on his face. “You’re going to have to apologize your old man, darling, because even though every piece had the pronouns of its author, I can't for the life of me remember what yours said.”
That is an absolute lie, and judging by the reluctant smile on her face, she knows it as well as he does. “I would like to go with she/her from now on.” Henry can tell there's something else she wants to say, so he waits. “And, well, my name is Charlotte.”
“Oh, that's such a beautiful name, darling.” There are tears running freely through his face and there is not a songle way he can stop them. “It fits you perfectly! Oh, can I hug you again?”
Charlotte is also crying, but she has the loveliest smile adorning her face and Henry couldn't be prouder. “Yes, please.”
They will talk more about it later. About gender therapy and legally changing her name. About how long she's known (a year) and if she wants to come out to somebody else (she already told Elena, earlier on the day, and at dinner, she's going to tell Alex, who will call her Mija and be so overjoyed he will hug her and spin her around as she laughs in delight and screams to drop her). All of that will come later, but for now, Henry will embrace his daughter in his arms and remember the first time he held her when she was born, seven pounds and twenty inches, with eyes so bright and scared, and Henry, looking between Alex and her, swore to protect her from harm with his life if it was necessary.