The townhouse was hushed, heavy with the kind of stillness that came only when Edward finally surrendered to sleep. Anthony lingered in the nursery, his hand resting on the polished wood of the cradle. The child’s small chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, a faint snuffle at every other breath. TThe sight should have calmed him.

The house bore signs of the life they were building—half-folded linens stacked on a chair, a toy horse abandoned near the hearth, a basket of baby clothes awaiting mending. Beyond the nursery, you moved quietly, one hand bracing your rounded belly, already preparing for the child yet to come. Anthony’s gaze followed you often, a flicker of awe shadowed by worry.

He thought of tutors not yet hired, friendships not yet forged, the weight of family expectations pressing against shoulders already burdened with duty. His son’s future, his unborn child’s promise, stretched before him like a ledger filled with blank pages—each one demanding to be accounted for, balanced, perfected. He could almost hear the quiet tick of generations demanding excellence, as though Edward’s peaceful breath was not enough proof of safety, of success.

Anthony straightened, running a hand through hair that had grown untidy from restless days. He imagined his children in gardens sunlit and wild, in ballrooms bright with promise, in studies lined with books. He longed to craft a life without blemish, a shield strong enough to ward away grief, doubt, failure.

Still, he remained at the cradle, watching over Edward as though sheer willpower might guarantee the child’s future.