Harry Potter: The Golden Boy

The soothing sound of waves crashing against the shore echoed rhythmically outside a grand manor in Sands Point, New York. The salty sea breeze carried a melody that blended harmoniously with the serene atmosphere, bringing life to the surroundings.

This manor, with its exquisite architecture reminiscent of the grand estates of old England, stood proudly against the horizon. Ahead of it, a meticulously landscaped garden stretched out, adorned with vibrant blooms and manicured hedges. At the heart of the garden, a marble fountain gurgled softly, where a delicate statue of a cherubic angel, perched gracefully at the top, gazed down with serene eyes.

On the balcony of the manor's second floor, a young boy with tousled blonde hair stood in quiet contemplation. His gaze lingered on the distant horizon where the sea met the sky. The tranquil view seemed to wash over him, and he let out a soft sigh of relief as if in gratitude for the peace the morning brought. "Thank God for another day," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant waves.

The boy, Nicholas Gryff, stretched his small arms, shaking off the morning's stillness. He began to change into his daily attire, readying himself for breakfast. As he slipped into his clothes, he muttered to himself with a knowing smile, "Mom should be here in three…" He counted down, and as if on cue, a knock echoed through the room just as he reached one.

"It's time for breakfast, Nico," came a gentle, melodic voice from beyond the door.

The door opened softly, revealing a woman whose beauty was striking yet tender. Her blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders, framing a face with delicate, chiseled features. Her eyes, a deep ocean blue, sparkled with warmth, though a trace of sadness lingered in them. Marilyn Gryff, his mother, approached him with a soft smile and carefully straightened his collar. "Come now, dear, I had Aunt Betty prepare a wonderful breakfast for the three of us."

The dining room was lavishly set, but today's breakfast felt different to Nicholas, not just because of the rich spread before him, but because of the somber mood that lingered in the air. His mother, usually animated with conversation and gentle laughter, was quieter today. Her eyes, deep with emotion, often drifted toward him, filled with a kind of wistfulness that Nicholas didn't fully understand. Occasionally, she would murmur under her breath, "If only your grandfather hadn't insisted…" The words, though soft and almost inaudible, weighed heavily on the air. Nicholas, though still young, sensed the gravity behind them. Still, he focused on his meal, savoring the delicious food in silence.

Moments later, his mother's tone shifted, lightening the mood as she spoke again. "Senator Hardy has been asking for you to meet his daughter once again, dear," she said, her teasing voice replacing the earlier melancholy. "The poor little girl has been eagerly looking forward to meeting you all week."

Nicholas glanced up, surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor. A playful smile danced on her lips as she added, "Another girl lovestruck by that wonderful voice of yours, my dear."

Her words brought a faint blush to Nicholas' cheeks, and he couldn't help but smile shyly. Though the playful comment momentarily lifted the somber atmosphere, he knew there was something deeper weighing on his mother's heart.

As breakfast came to an end, Nicholas reached out and took his mother's hand, trying to comfort her in the only way he knew how. "Don't cry, Mom. We can always talk through the phone!" His innocent words brought a soft smile to Marilyn's face, as well as Aunt Betty's, who stood right beside his mother right after finishing her meal, her expression warm but reserved.

Marilyn nodded gently, setting aside her melancholy for the moment. "You're right, my love," she replied with a sweet smile. "Now, let's get ready for departure. Have you finished packing your things?"

Nicholas nodded eagerly, his face glowing with excitement. "Yes, I did it all last night!" he replied, the words spilling out with a rush of enthusiasm. The truth was, he had barely slept at all, his mind too busy with thoughts of the coming trip. For the first time in three years, he would meet his British father, a man whose presence in his life had been fleeting and distant due to the strained relationship between his parents. The prospect of seeing him again, though tinged with some nervousness, filled Nicholas with a mixture of anticipation and hope.

"I can't wait for the gifts Grandfather said he had prepared!" he added, his voice rising with excitement. The mention of his grandfather brought a fond smile to his mother's lips, the melancholy that had hung over her all morning lifting just a little. Nicholas had always been close to his grandfather, a figure who often bridged the gap between the fractured parts of his family. His stories of grand adventures and promises of thoughtful gifts made Nicholas's trips abroad feel less intimidating and more like an adventure.

Marilyn's smile softened as she reached down and gently took her son's hand. "I'm sure you'll love them," she said warmly. Her voice, though tender, carried an undercurrent of sadness that Nicholas couldn't quite decipher. She gave his hand a light squeeze before leading him toward the grand foyer of the manor, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly against the marble floors.

As they reached the foyer, Aunt Betty, the family's trusted housekeeper, ascended the grand staircase to fetch Nicholas's luggage. Nicholas watched her closely, as he often did in these moments. Aunt Betty was a woman of Filipino heritage, her deep, tanned skin a testament to years of hard work both indoors and out. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a simple bun at the nape of her neck, streaked faintly with silver strands that spoke of time and experience. Though her frame was slender and her arms thin—delicate even, like bamboo stalks—there was an undeniable strength in her movements.

Nicholas sighed, knowing how this scene would play out. He had seen it countless times before: Aunt Betty, insisting on doing everything herself, refusing any help with a gentle smile. The woman was stubborn, always brushing off his offers to help with, "Don't trouble yourself, young Master. I can manage just fine." It was the same line, always delivered in the same sweet, but firm, tone. But today, that didn't sit right with Nicholas. He wasn't a child anymore—he was strong enough to carry his own luggage, yet everyone still treated him like he was too young or too fragile to manage.

He used to find it amusing, even endearing, watching her lift suitcases that seemed almost as big as her, but today the sight stirred something new inside him—irritation. "Why is it always like this?" he thought, feeling the frustration bubble up. Aunt Betty shouldn't be doing this; he could handle it. He was old enough, strong enough. Yet no one seemed to take that seriously.

Nicholas shifted on his feet, his hands clenching at his sides as he watched Aunt Betty glide up the stairs with the same quiet dignity she always had. She's always been so kind, so graceful, but for the first time, he felt something more than admiration. He felt... underestimated.

To his surprise, Aunt Betty seemed to noticed his inner feelings as she returned with his luggage, she didn't refuse his help this time. Instead, she gave him a warm, knowing smile and handed him one of the smaller suitcases, something manageable but enough to make Nicholas feel like he was finally being treated as capable. Nicholas blinked in surprise, a small flicker of pride swelling in his chest. He took the handle, feeling the weight in his hands, light compared to what he knew he could carry, but significant in the gesture. It felt like a step forward—a small acknowledgment that he wasn't just a child to be looked after, but someone who could shoulder responsibility too. But even as he held the suitcase, the frustration lingered. Why couldn't she give him more? He wasn't a kid anymore, and it hurt that they couldn't see that.

"Mom," Nicholas finally spoke, his voice tight with frustration. He turned toward his mother, his eyes pleading for some kind of recognition. "Why can't we have the guards outside do the lifting? Aunt Betty shouldn't have to do menial chores like this anymore." His voice was louder now, the irritation seeping through. He didn't want to sound like he was complaining, but he couldn't help it. "Or I could help Aunt betty lift heavier things, I'm not a little kid anymore," Nicholas muttered under his breath, his eyes lowering to the floor, unable to meet his mother's gaze. "I can do more. I don't need people doing everything for me."

Marilyn, who had been watching the scene with a gentle smile on her face, chuckled softly at her son's earnestness. She reached out, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Well, my child," she began, her voice as warm and calm as ever, "Aunt Betty has always insisted on doing these things herself. She takes pride in her work, and she'd rather carry the weight of the household herself than ask anyone else to do it for her." Her smile lingered, a faint sigh escaping her lips. "I've tried many times to convince her to let others help, but your Aunt Betty is quite strong-willed, you see. She believes she doesn't deserve the money she earns, always thinking she needs to work harder to justify it." Marilyn's eyes softened as she glanced over at Aunt Betty, who was now quietly standing nearby. "She doesn't realize that we don't see her as just a housekeeper. She's family."

Her voice carried just loud enough for Aunt Betty to hear, and as the words hung in the air, Nicholas turned toward the woman who had been such a constant figure in his life, his gaze questioning. Aunt Betty caught the look in his eyes and responded with a gentle, reassuring smile, her dark almond-shaped eyes crinkling at the corners. She didn't need to say anything—her smile conveyed all that Nicholas needed to know.

Despite the small stature and the weathered hands that carried the weight of countless years of hard work, there was an undeniable dignity in Aunt Betty's every gesture. Nicholas now understood that behind her quiet demeanor lay a deep sense of pride, and he admired that in her, even if he didn't fully understand it yet.

Outside the manor, the sleek black Bentley awaited them, gleaming in the soft morning sun. The polished car, with its luxurious chrome finish, seemed to reflect the grandeur of the life they led, though the atmosphere that surrounded the departure was quieter than usual. A tall, suited bodyguard stood beside the car, his posture straight and formal, hands clasped behind his back as he waited patiently. The Bentley was immaculate, its leather interior just visible through the open door, promising a smooth and comfortable ride ahead.

As Nicholas and his mother stepped out into the sunlight, the bodyguard moved efficiently to open the door for them, his expression respectful yet detached, as was his professional manner. Marilyn, with a graceful nod of thanks, stepped inside the car, followed by Nicholas, who stole one last glance at Aunt Betty.

Before climbing into the Bentley, Nicholas watched as the bodyguard approached Aunt Betty to assist with the luggage. She stood quietly, her demeanor calm and unhurried, as the man reached for the suitcase she had carried down with such ease. Though she offered the luggage without resistance, there was a certain pride in the way she handed it over, as if to say, "I carried it this far myself." The bodyguard, unaware of the unspoken dynamic, carefully loaded the bags into the trunk, securing them with precision.

As the door to the Bentley closed softly behind him, Nicholas sat back in his seat, his thoughts lingering on Aunt Betty. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, about her life—where she had come from, how she had grown so strong in both body and spirit, and what it truly meant to be part of a family. Though she never asked for help, and rarely spoke of herself, there was something quietly heroic about her, and Nicholas couldn't help but admire her for it.

With a low hum, the engine of the Bentley purred to life, and as the car rolled away from the grand manor, Nicholas glanced back through the rear window. There stood Aunt Betty, watching them depart with her usual serene smile, her hands clasped lightly in front of her, her figure growing smaller and smaller as the car sped away down the long, tree-lined drive. Nicholas felt a pang of emotion in his chest—a mix of gratitude, admiration, and a lingering desire to help the woman who had helped raise him.

He leaned back into the plush leather seat, his small fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as thoughts tugged at his young mind. The soft hum of the Bentley's engine was soothing, but Nicholas couldn't shake the images of Aunt Betty from his head—the way she carried those burdens without complaint, how she had always been there, a quiet but constant presence in his life. One day, he promised himself, I'll be old enough and strong enough to repay her. I'll carry those heavy burdens for her, just as she's carried so many for us. It was a child's promise, yet it felt deeply serious to him.

As he sat lost in thought, a sweet and familiar voice broke through the quiet. "You make me proud, Nico," his mother said gently from beside him, her tone warm and filled with affection. He glanced over at her, already knowing what she was going to say next, but still, his heart lifted at her words.

Marilyn's gaze softened, and a playful smile touched her lips. "When your father and I were young, he was just like you—full of kindness." She winked, her eyes crinkling in that way that made her look both wistful and teasing at the same time. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she added, leaning in as if sharing something truly mischievous. "He even wanted Aunt Betty to accompany him back to England when…" her voice trailed off, and for a brief moment, her expression faltered. A tinge of sadness flickered in her eyes, like a shadow passing across her face. "… when we chose to spend some time apart."

Nicholas shifted in his seat, sensing the weight behind her words. Though he was still young, the sadness in his mother's voice was palpable, and it made his heart tighten in that confusing way emotions often did. He thought back to the stories he'd heard—fragments of memories, really—about how things used to be before the separation. They were fuzzy, blurry images in his mind, but they still carried the echo of something lost.

"I was only four back then, Mom!" Nicholas exclaimed, his voice taking on a note of childish enthusiasm as if trying to chase away the heaviness of the moment. He turned to her, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. "It's a good thing Aunt Betty chose to stay. I wouldn't know what would've happened if she didn't!" He tried to sound playful, but deep down, there was an unspoken sadness he didn't yet know how to express—a lingering ache in his chest that he wasn't ready to face.

His mother's smile returned, softer this time, as if she could see through his attempt at bravado. She reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "Yes, darling, she's always been there for us," Marilyn murmured, her voice quiet now, almost as if speaking to herself. "She made sure this house kept running when everything else seemed to fall apart."

Nicholas nodded, though he barely remembered the time when his father had left for England. The shouts, the heated arguments, the tears that had filled their once peaceful home—all of it had faded into the hazy background of his early childhood. But even now, pieces of those moments lingered in his mind, flashing by in disjointed bursts. The way his father's voice had grown louder and more frustrated, the way his mother's eyes had filled with unshed tears, the way Aunt Betty had silently stood by, offering comfort in her quiet, steady way.

A pang of sadness stirred deep within him, though he didn't fully understand it. All he knew was that things had changed, and that change had left an empty space in his heart—a space that, no matter how many gifts his grandfather promised, or how many visits they made to England, never quite seemed to fill.

"I wish you and Father would get back together," Nicholas thought, but the words stayed trapped inside his mind, unsaid. Instead, he gazed out the window as the Bentley rolled smoothly down the tree-lined road, the sun-dappled shadows flickering across the car's sleek surface. In his young heart, he held onto a secret hope—a hope that one day, things might return to the way they were before. That maybe, just maybe, his parents would find their way back to each other.

But for now, all he could do was hope. Hope, and wait.

It took over an hour for the Bentley to finally reach John F. Kennedy Airport, but Nicholas didn't mind the long ride. The journey itself was a welcome distraction, and he found himself mesmerized by the changing scenery outside the window. The behemoths of steel and glass that made up the New York skyline in 1989 loomed overhead like modern-day cathedrals, their sharp edges and glinting windows reaching for the clouds. The city, always alive with motion, pulsed with energy. Taxi cabs honked in the distance, their yellow forms weaving through the busy streets like bees in a hive. Billboards flashed neon advertisements for Coca-Cola and Sony, their bright lights contrasting against the grimy sidewalks below. Vendors lined the streets, selling everything from hot dogs to pretzels, the smell of street food mingling with the crisp autumn air.

As the Bentley cruised through the city, leaving Manhattan behind, Nicholas watched in quiet awe as the steel giants began to shrink in the rearview mirror. The urban jungle soon gave way to more industrial surroundings near the airport—warehouses, parking lots, and wide, open spaces that seemed a world away from the hustle and bustle of the city center.

However, their car did not stop at the usual bustling drop-off area swarmed with travelers and their luggage. Instead, the Bentley veered off onto a covert path, a secluded road reserved for the elite and important figures—people whose business at the airport was kept away from the public eye. This private route led them through a more discreet entrance, far from the crowds and noise of the main terminal.

At an outpost just ahead of a high, reinforced gate, an armed guard stood watch. His eyes were sharp, scanning every vehicle that approached. As the Bentley rolled up to the guard's station, he gave a brisk nod, recognizing the passengers inside. He approached the driver's window and conducted a brief security check, his hand resting on the holster of his firearm, though his posture was relaxed. After a few exchanged words, he waved them through, and the heavy iron gate slowly swung open, granting them access to the private airfield. "Safe travels, Miss Marilyn." He said, as he returned back to his post. 

Once inside, the Bentley cruised across the tarmac, leaving the noise of commercial air travel behind. No enormous passenger jets or throngs of hurried travelers could be seen here—just quiet open space. The car finally pulled to a stop near a sleek, luxurious-looking jet that gleamed under the late morning sun. The private jet sat on the far side of the field, a stark contrast to the massive airliners in the distance. Its streamlined shape and polished exterior made it look like something out of a movie, a symbol of both wealth and freedom.

The driver stepped out first, his sharp black suit as pristine and unwrinkled as it had been at the start of the journey, a testament to his professionalism. He moved with practiced efficiency, his polished shoes clicking against the tarmac as he made his way around the car to Marilyn's side. With a smooth, almost choreographed motion, he opened the door for her, holding it just so, allowing the soft breeze to carry through without disturbing her. Marilyn stepped out gracefully, her every movement poised and elegant. She paused for a moment, lightly brushing the edge of the car door with her gloved hand before adjusting the belt of her long, camel-colored coat against the slight chill in the air.

Her blonde hair, carefully styled into loose waves that framed her face, caught the sunlight, gleaming golden as the strands moved gently in the breeze. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment as she cast her eyes toward the waiting jet, its sleek, white fuselage gleaming under the bright blue sky. A small, knowing smile touched her lips, one that held both anticipation and the weight of a journey she had taken many times before.

Meanwhile, Nicholas, full of youthful energy, had already swung open his own door and hopped out of the car, too excited to wait for the formalities. The stretch after the long ride felt good, but what thrilled him most was the sight of the jet parked just ahead. It was the same one that had carried him back and forth between the United States and England on so many occasions, and yet, the sight of it still filled him with wonder. Its polished exterior seemed almost otherworldly, like something out of a dream, promising adventure with every trip.

"Come along, darling," his mother said softly, glancing down at him with affection. She took his hand, guiding him as they walked side by side toward the aircraft. As they approached the jet, they were greeted by a middle-aged man dressed smartly in a pilot's uniform. His cap was tilted slightly back, revealing a broad forehead and neatly trimmed brown hair that was just beginning to silver at the edges. He was tall, towering over Nicholas and even Marilyn, with a build that suggested strength—muscular arms that filled out the sleeves of his navy-blue jacket with gold-trimmed epaulets. Yet, despite his imposing stature, there was something gentle about him, a touch of softness in the way he carried himself.

His eyes, a striking shade of light blue, were bright with warmth and humor. A subtle air of refinement clung to him, his every movement measured and calm, giving him a slightly feminine grace that balanced his otherwise rugged appearance. His smile stretched wide across his face, genuine and welcoming, as if every arrival was a reunion he cherished.

Beside him stood a flight attendant, dressed in a neatly pressed uniform of deep navy blue. Her dark hair was styled into a perfect bun, and her bright red lipstick added a pop of color against her pale complexion. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, maintaining a polite smile, her presence quiet but essential in the background.

"Marilyn!" the pilot greeted enthusiastically, his deep voice carrying a sense of familiarity and joy. He opened his arms wide in a friendly gesture as he approached her. Marilyn returned his enthusiasm with a warm smile, and they held each other's arms briefly before exchanging a light kiss on the cheek, their shared history evident in the ease of their interaction.

"Ah, always a pleasure," she replied, her voice light and full of fondness as she pulled back, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

The pilot then turned his attention to Nicholas, his smile broadening as he leaned down slightly, making eye contact with the boy. "Ready for another ride in the air, Nico?" he asked, his tone playful but warm, as though he had known Nicholas his whole life.

Nicholas grinned, his excitement bubbling to the surface. "I've been ready since breakfast!" he exclaimed, unable to contain his enthusiasm. The anticipation of flying always thrilled him, the idea of being above the clouds, the world shrinking below him, and the sense of freedom it brought.

The pilot chuckled, reaching down to ruffle Nicholas's hair in a gesture that was both familiar and affectionate, like an uncle who had watched him grow up over the years. "That's what I like to hear," he said with a playful glint in his blue eyes. Straightening up, he adjusted his cap and smoothed out the sleeves of his uniform with the ease of a man accustomed to routine. "We've got clear skies all the way to London—should be a smooth flight, no turbulence in sight," he added, slipping into the language of his profession. "We'll be cruising at a steady altitude, nice and easy. You'll barely feel the climb."

As he spoke, Mark moved effortlessly into action, taking one of the suitcases with a practiced hand and gesturing for the guard and the flight attendant to help with the rest of the luggage. Despite his casual tone, every move he made was precise, the mark of someone who had spent years doing his job and knew every step of the process by heart. The guard followed suit, loading the bags into the plane's cargo hold with quiet efficiency, while the flight attendant ensured everything was stowed properly.

Nicholas, watching the flurry of activity, felt a rush of excitement as he once again remembered their destination; England, to meet his paternal relatives. The thought of meeting his father and grandfather again gave him a sense of anticipation. He moved past his mother and Mark, eager to board, but as he walked by, he overheard a quiet exchange between the two adults.

Mark's voice, though lower and more serious now, carried just enough for Nicholas to catch. "Are you still not going to meet George?" he asked, a note of concern threading through his words. "Look, I know he's been a pain in the neck these past few years, but you two need to reconcile. Nicholas needs a stable, complete family environment."

Marilyn, her expression softening slightly as Mark spoke, sighed. Her eyes, which had been warm moments before, darkened with a flicker of unresolved frustration. "Even if I do go, he's too busy expanding his so-called business empire," she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. "You and I both know it, Mark. He doesn't have time for reconciliations. He barely has time for Nicholas."

Mark pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing in thought, but before he could respond, Marilyn's sharp gaze darted to the side, catching sight of Nicholas hovering nearby, clearly eavesdropping. Her expression softened again, but this time with a maternal protectiveness. "Let me talk with Nicholas for a moment," she said firmly, her voice carrying a gentle but unmistakable command.

Mark followed her gaze toward Nicholas and, realizing the boy had heard more than he should have, nodded with understanding. His earlier smile returned, bright and easy, as if to assure Nicholas that everything was under control. "Alright, Marilyn," he said, stepping back gracefully. "I'll have the jet ready for takeoff then. Just give me the word when you're ready."

With a final glance between mother and son, Mark turned on his heel and strode purposefully toward the jet, his steps confident and measured. He called out to the flight attendant as he passed, and together they busied themselves with final preparations, their professional focus returning as they checked the plane's readiness.

Marilyn watched him go before turning to face Nicholas fully, her expression now softened into one of concern and care. She knelt down slightly so that she was at eye level with him, brushing an errant strand of blonde hair from her face as she did so. "Nico," she began, her voice calm but serious. "I know you heard what we were talking about."

Nicholas swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He nodded, not wanting to lie but also unsure of what to say.

"I don't want you to worry about your father and me, alright?" she continued, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. "Sometimes grown-ups have to figure things out in their own time. It doesn't mean we don't care about you, or that we're not thinking about what's best for you. Your father loves you—never doubt that."

The boy nodded slowly, a heavy silence settling between them as he wrestled with thoughts too big for his young heart to fully understand. His eyes, wide with unshed tears, searched his mother's face for comfort, but something in her expression only deepened the ache in his chest. After a long moment, he whispered, his voice fragile, "Won't you at least come, Mom? I'd miss you very much."

The words hung in the air, soft but weighted with the kind of emotion that children rarely show so openly. Without waiting for a response, Nicholas wrapped his small arms tightly around his mother, clinging to her with a desperation that made her heart ache. He buried his face against her, his cheek pressed to the warmth of her coat, as if trying to memorize the feeling of her presence. "Grandfather told me last night that I'd be staying for a few years there," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. "Won't you be lonely without me, Mom?"

As he spoke, his hand, so small and delicate, began to gently stroke her back in a soothing motion, mirroring the comfort she had always given him. But now, the roles seemed reversed. For the first time, he felt like the one trying to ease her sadness. From behind him, he heard it—a quiet, restrained sob. It was a sound he had never heard from her before, at least not openly. Usually, when his mother cried, it was behind the closed door of her bedroom, muffled by pillows or drowned out by the shower. But this time, she didn't hide it.

For a brief moment, the world seemed to slow, and Nicholas could feel the trembling in her shoulders, the fragility of her usually strong frame. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears, and the boy squeezed his eyes shut, holding on to her as if he could freeze time and make everything stay as it was.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. Marilyn, ever the strong mother, swallowed her sorrow and forced herself to return to the role she knew best—his source of comfort. She broke from their embrace with the gentlest of motions, her hands coming up to cradle his small face between them. Her palms were soft against his cheeks, but Nicholas could still feel the slight tremor in her fingers, a sign that her strength was not as unwavering as it seemed.

She smiled at him, though the edges of it were fragile, as if it might crack at any second. "I'll always be visiting you, my dear child," she promised, her voice tender but tinged with something that sounded like guilt. She smoothed back his hair, her gaze searching his for some reassurance, though it was clear she was the one who needed it. "I'll be just a phone call away."

Her words, though meant to soothe, couldn't fully mask the sadness in her eyes. Nicholas could see it—something unsaid, something that made his chest tighten. "But... you won't be there all the time," he said quietly, as if just realizing the weight of it. The idea of being away from her for years suddenly felt enormous, unbearable.

Marilyn's smile faltered for a brief second before she quickly recovered, brushing her thumb lightly across his cheek. "Though I..." She hesitated, the words catching in her throat, a flash of guilt crossing her face. "Though I have no reason not to visit, so always wait for my calls, my dearest." Her voice wavered slightly at the end, and Nicholas noticed how her eyes, though bright with love, were clouded with something else—regret, perhaps, or the fear of letting him go.

Nicholas nodded, but inside, he couldn't shake the sadness that clung to him like a shadow. His mother was here now, holding him, comforting him, but he could feel the distance growing between them. The long months apart that stretched ahead loomed large in his mind, and for the first time, he wasn't sure if even the excitement of England could fill the void that would be left by her absence.

"I'll wait for your calls," he whispered, his voice small, but he wondered, deep down, if those calls would ever be enough. 

Marilyn leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "That's my brave boy," she whispered, though this time, the words seemed as much for her own reassurance as they were for his. She lingered for a moment, her lips resting against his skin, before finally pulling away. The bittersweet expression on her face said more than words ever could, and Nicholas couldn't help but feel the weight of what was unspoken between them.