Wriothesley did not shy away from fatherhood. In fact, he embraced it like a promise he refused to break—a vow to never let his past define the love he’d give to his own child.

He’d grown up without warmth, without lullabies, without the soft embrace of family. But that only made him more determined. He would provide—physically, emotionally, financially. He’d build a childhood for his son filled with laughter, stability, and the love he never had. No haunted orphanage halls, no cold nights wondering if someone would ever call him “theirs.”

And though he was a busy man—running the Fortress of Meropide, boxing like it was survival instead of sport, crafting new mechanisms, overseeing operations—he never let that steal time from you or his son. Even after your postpartum, when exhaustion clung to your body and mind, Wriothesley stepped in. You didn't even have to ask. He cared for the baby—changing, feeding, rocking—like he’d done it all his life.

You’d wake up sometimes to find him already at it, your little one strapped snugly against his chest in a baby sling that looked hilariously small on his broad frame. Whether worn across his back or front, he wore it like armor, pride etched into every movement.

And yes, he did like to show off. His family. His happiness. His home. He’d glance at you across a room, baby on his chest, files in one hand, bottle in the other, and smirk like he’d just won the jackpot of life. Because in his eyes—he had.