“I was their champion,” Nancy corrected. “You see, Peter was… well, you know what he was. The golden child. Kind, romantic,undeterred by reality. He was mad about her. I have never seen anyone so in love.”
She noticed Oscar’s hand tighten on the stem of his glass, the knuckles pale. But his face betrayed nothing.
“They planned to elope, at first,” Nancy went on. “But then Teresa got cold feet. Not because she didn’t love him—she did, with all her heart—but because she feared she would ruin his life. His future. So she refused him for weeks. He finally convinced her with a single letter. I never saw it, but after reading it, she cried for a day and then packed her things.”
Oscar said, “My mother found out. That is what finished her.”
The words were flat, an indictment without accusation.
“It wasn’t Teresa’s fault,” Nancy said. “Your mother’s health was already?—”
“She died within a year,” Oscar replied, still without heat. “Peter never forgave himself.”
Nancy’s throat tightened. “But he did love her.”
Oscar’s mouth twisted, a half-smile, half-wound. “I know.”
“They were happy, Oscar. Genuinely happy. I used to visit them after the twins were born. They had this tiny cottage at the edgeof the estate. Teresa would always have a kettle on, and Peter would pretend not to see me coming so he could ‘surprise’ the children. They were wild, those two. I think they only stopped running when they slept.”
Oscar stared at his plate, as if the story had drained all color from the room.
Nancy pressed on, softer now. “After Peter’s accident, I wrote to Teresa. I could not attend the funeral as I was traveling with my family,” Nancy’s voice faltered, the first sign of real pain. “I visited often, but I should have…” She gestured to the present with a limp wave.
Oscar looked up, eyes cold and luminous at once. She studied him, the shape of his jaw and the set of his shoulders, and the way, even now, he sat with the posture of a man expecting attack.
“You could have visited them, you know,” Nancy said, her voice low. “Clara and Henry. Teresa would have welcomed you.”
Oscar’s hands stilled. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “I was not wanted. Peter made that very clear.”
“He was wrong,” Nancy replied.
Oscar let the silence stretch. “I am not built for forgiveness, Nancy. Nor am I much good at family. My mother died, and I blamed him. He died, and I blamed myself.”
There it was: the truth, brittle and bare as bone.
Nancy felt something break inside her. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He looked up, blue eyes fathomless. “We always say that. It is never our fault, and yet the world is full of orphans.”
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. The pain in his words was an old, fossilized thing, worn into the very shape of him.
Oscar smiled then—just a fraction, not a real one, but something shaped like one. “You must not think me a monster. I cared for Peter. For Teresa, too. And I wish—” He stopped, the smile curdling into nothing.
“What do you wish?” Nancy asked.
“I wish I knew how to make any of it better. For you. For the twins. For myself, if I am honest.”
Nancy’s hands trembled, just a little. She reached for her wine, found it empty, and set it down with a thunk. “You make things better just by being here.”
Oscar arched a brow. “You are a liar.”
“I am not.” She met his gaze, bold for once. “You make things better because you try. Because you care, even when you pretend not to.”
He said, softly, “I do not pretend with you.”
She felt her throat close. “Then why do you always wear that face?”
Oscar blinked. “What face?”
