Chapter 4
After deleting that number, Theo never said the word "Dad" again.
Until school Family Day that day.
Sunlight fell through the stained glass of the school auditorium.
Laughter buzzed all around.
On the playground, red-and-blue tents were set up, and long tables were covered with drawing paper and crayons. Beside every child stood a tall figure.
Fathers leaned down, holding their children's hands to guide their lines.
Theo sat at the farthest edge of the bench.
On his paper, he had drawn two people. One was me, one was himself, and between them, a large empty space was left.
He didn't draw a third person.
He just held the blue crayon, his knuckles white from pressing.
I didn't promise for Julian that he would come.
Theo didn't ask either.
But every time the school gate made a sound, he still looked up instinctively.
I watched him repeatedly turn his gaze to the entrance, then withdraw it, and force himself to look down.
He didn't cry.
He didn't even pull my sleeve and ask, "When will Dad get here?" like before.
He just became unusually quiet.
"Theo?"
A young teacher walked over with a roll sheet and crouched in front of the bench.
She followed Theo's gaze to the empty school gate, then looked at the blank space on his drawing, and asked gently:
"Who is this for?"
Theo didn't move.
He stared at the crayon in his hand, and after a long while, said softly:
"It used to be for Dad."
The teacher paused briefly, unsure how to respond, and simply asked:
"Will he come today?"
Theo stopped what he was doing.
He looked once more at the empty gate.
This time, he didn't shake his head, nor did he speak.
He just gave a quiet answer:
"My dad forgot me."
The air went still for a few seconds.
He didn't cry, nor make a scene. He just quietly folded the drawing paper, creasing a small corner at the edge.
I said nothing, only restrainedly straightened his collar.
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I swiped open the screen—a short message from Julian:
"Celeste had a scare. I can't leave."
"Don't make a scene. I'll make it up to him."
The words on the screen were cold and matter-of-fact.
I couldn't be bothered. I just calmly turned the phone face down on the table.
Around us, parents had already begun teaming up for the "family tree" and collaborative games.
Theo sat alone at the edge of the bench, looking forlorn.
Just then, Lachlan walked over.
He was there today as a sponsor for the children's reading program, invited by the school.
He wasn't wearing a suit—just a dark shirt.
He didn't come straight to Theo; instead, he spoke briefly with the teacher, then came to my side and asked in a low voice:
"I heard the scheduled family member couldn't make it. The activity requires pairs—do you need a hand?"
I looked at him, instinctively wanting to refuse.
I didn't want Theo to feel that just anyone could casually fill a father's place.
But when I turned my head, the teacher was walking over with activity cards, requiring every child to complete the upcoming "Person I Trust Most" presentation with an adult.
Theo was about to be the only child left out.
Lachlan didn't look at me.
Instead, he crouched in front of the bench, his eyes level with Theo's.
He didn't mention Julian, nor say anything overstepping.
He just asked:
"Would you like a partner for the race?"
Theo looked up, his clear dark eyes meeting Lachlan's.
He was silent for a long time, then reached out his small hand, his voice very low:
"Just for today."
Lachlan took his hand—not squeezing, just holding it steadily.
The activity moved to the "Person I Trust Most" card segment.
Other children quickly wrote down Mom, Dad, Grandma on their papers.
Theo held his pen above the paper.
He first wrote "Dad," but the tip hovered there for a long time.
Eventually, he crossed it out stroke by stroke.
In the blank space, he wrote again:
"My mom."
After a pause of a few seconds, he added a small line beside it:
"And someone who comes when he says he will."
I stood aside, watching his small hand holding the crayon, yet writing with unusual force.
My throat tightened, but I didn't let the tears fall.
When the activity ended, the crowd gradually dispersed.
I walked over to help Theo pack his art supplies, only to find that he had been clutching the handmade race car card originally meant for Julian.
I thought he still wanted to keep it.
But Theo looked up and handed the card to Lachlan beside him.
"I made it for my dad."
He paused, his voice flat and calm:
"But he didn't come."
Then he turned his face to look at me, then at Lachlan, and asked softly:
"Can I give it to someone who did?"
The air seemed to stop in that moment.
Lachlan didn't reach out immediately, nor did he speak.
He just kept his hand suspended in midair, leaving the decision entirely to this seven-year-old.
Theo didn't hesitate.
He extended both hands and placed the handmade gift, originally inscribed with "FOR DAD," solemnly into Lachlan's palm.
"Tomorrow..." Theo looked at Lachlan and spoke softly.
"What is it?" Lachlan asked gently.
"Tomorrow I have rehabilitation therapy. Will you come with me?"