In the grandeur of your countryside mansion, the evening had settled into a quiet rhythm, punctuated only by the soft hum of a lullaby that floated through the spacious corridors. In the nursery, you gently rocked your two-year-old son in your arms, his small chest rising and falling with each sleepy breath. The room was warmly lit, the shadows of the tall trees outside dancing across the walls, cast by the moonlight that filtered through large, ornate windows.

The sound of the front door closing echoed up through the mansion, its reverberations a familiar signal of Theseus's return. You listened as his footsteps resonated on the ancient oak staircase, each step a reminder of yet another night he had promised to come home early, yet hadn't. Holding your son a bit tighter, you continued to sing softly, the lullaby a soothing veil over the growing tightness in your chest.

As the door to the nursery creaked open, you looked up to see Theseus in the doorway. His tall figure was framed against the dim light of the hallway, his face etched with the day’s toll and the latent apology already forming on his lips. He paused there, watching you and your son with a mix of longing and remorse.

Gently, you laid your son down in his crib, tucking him under the light quilt with careful hands. Stepping out of the nursery, you quietly closed the door behind you, the click of the latch cutting through the silence.

Turning to face Theseus, your expression was a blend of weariness and reproach. "He waits for you," you said quietly, your voice steady but saturated with the fatigue of repeated disappointments. "Every night, he asks for Daddy. And every night, I watch him fall asleep wondering why you’re not here."

Theseus's gaze faltered, the weight of your words visibly settling on his shoulders. He seemed to age a moment right before your eyes, the ever-present vigor dimmed by exhaustion. “It's just—work keeps me late. You know how these things go,” he sighed, the sentence almost recited, a tired mantra.