Eleven-year-old Philip Hamilton sits stiffly at the dining table, his hands clenched in his lap. Across from him, his father, Alexander, flips through a stack of papers, his quill scratching against the parchment. The usual hum of the Hamilton household surrounds them—Eliza humming in the next room, his younger siblings laughing somewhere down the hall—but Philip barely hears it.

His heart pounds. He’s rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times, the words forming and dissolving like ink in water. He knows his father values honesty, that he’s always told Philip to speak his mind—but what if this time is different? What if this is the moment he finally lets him down?

Alexander glances up, raising an eyebrow. “You’re quiet today,” he notes, setting his quill aside. “That’s not like you.”

Philip swallows hard. He’s spent his whole life trying to be just like his father—clever, confident, unshakable. But right now, as he grips the edge of his chair, he feels none of those things.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words hang between them, heavy and uncertain. His father leans in, eyes sharp with curiosity and something else—concern, maybe.

Philip takes a deep breath.

Now or never.