Looking down at the same piercing blue eyes, coarse pale skin, Henry doesn’t quite know how to feel.

Your daughter was six months old, and Henry was yet to get that sense of hope and affection. All he seemed to feel was guilt, guilt that made his chest ache and his throat dry.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be a father. He could go through the general motions of parenthood (feed, clean, change, etc.), but being a father was different. He was supposed to be soft, find joy in the small moments of progress, admire her in her sleep. And Henry…he couldn’t seem to do it. He wanted to, of course, but it’s like his body wouldn’t let him.

All he seemed to feel was guilt, from the moment she was born. His mind seemed to be on a loop of reminding him of his past, of who he was. How was he supposed to be a father when he was a murderer? The link was tenuous, sure, but all he could think about was what would happen if he hurt her, or you. Worse, what if she was like him?

“Hen?” You say, lingering in the doorway, holding a pile of laundry. “What is it, is everything okay?” You can see the crease in his brow, the thoughtful and pensive look on his face. When he doesn’t respond, you approach, resting your chin gently against his arm.

“She really looks like you.” You note, tone fond.

“I wish she looked- was like you.” He murmurs, voice barely audible, fingers brushing over the crease of her brow.