Page 33 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)
Chapter Thirty-Two
S ebastian
Thursday morning arrives with that particular electricity in the air that means something important is about to happen. Milo’s preschool graduation. The first major milestone we’ll all witness together—Aspen, Derek, and I, united in our shared love for one extraordinary little boy.
I’m adjusting Milo’s child-sized bow tie for the third time when he looks up at me with serious eyes.
“Poppa Sebastian, do you think Daddy will really come? Like, actually show up and not have an emergency or get lost or forget?”
The question hits me right in the chest. Four-year-olds shouldn’t have to worry about whether their parents will keep promises, but Derek’s track record speaks for itself.
Still, something’s been different about him lately.
The therapy, the voluntary parenting classes, the genuine effort to be present instead of just appearing when convenient.
“I think he’ll be there, buddy. He sounded really excited when he called Mama.”
“But what if he doesn’t? Will you still be proud of me?”
“Milo.” I crouch down to his level, my snakes arranging themselves in gentle, reassuring patterns.
“I will always be proud of you. Whether Daddy comes or not, whether you remember all the words to your song or not, whether your bow tie stays straight or ends up sideways. Nothing you do or don’t do could change how proud I am to be your Poppa. ”
His face lights up with the kind of relief that comes from unconditional acceptance. “Okay. And if Daddy does come, that’s just extra good, right?”
“Extra good,” I confirm, finishing his bow tie adjustment. “Now, are you ready to show everyone how much you’ve learned this year?”
“Ready!” He bounces on his toes, then stops suddenly. “Can you make just a tiny bit of magic for good luck? Nothing big, just… you know, Poppa magic?”
The request makes my heart squeeze with love. I create a small constellation of golden lights that dance around his head like a crown, then fade into sparkles that settle in his hair.
“There. Graduation magic that no one else can see, but you’ll know it’s there.”
“Perfect.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into Little Dragons Preschool, Milo between Aspen and me, practically vibrating with excitement.
The classroom has been transformed for the ceremony—tiny chairs arranged in rows, a small stage area decorated with the children’s artwork, families gathering with cameras and proud expressions.
And there, near the back of the room, is Derek. On time, appropriately dressed, holding a wrapped gift, and looking genuinely nervous in the way of someone who wants to do the right thing but isn’t sure what that looks like.
“Daddy!” Milo breaks away from us and runs toward Derek, who catches him in a hug that looks both surprised and grateful.
“Hey, buddy! You look so grown up in that bow tie.”
“Poppa Sebastian helped me get it perfect. And he gave me invisible graduation magic for good luck.”
Derek’s expression shifts as he processes the casual way Milo refers to me as Poppa, but instead of the jealousy or resentment I might have expected, his face softens into something like wonder.
“Invisible magic, huh? That sounds pretty special.”
“It is. Poppa Sebastian’s magic is the best magic.” Milo takes Derek’s hand and tugs him toward us. “Come meet everyone! Mrs. Moskowitz brought cookies, and Miss Lee says we get to sing three whole songs!”
As Derek approaches, I brace for awkwardness, but instead find myself looking at a man who seems genuinely committed to being present. His “hello” to Aspen is respectful, and when he extends his hand to me, his grip is firm and his eyes are sincere.
“Sebastian. Thank you for being here for him. For all of this.”
“Thank you for coming,” I reply, and mean it. “It means everything to him.”
“I can see that.” Derek’s gaze follows Milo, who’s now showing off his bow tie to Mrs. Moskowitz. “He’s so confident. So happy. You’ve both given him something I never could.”
“You could give him that too,” I say quietly. “Consistency. Showing up when you say you will. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about being present.”
Derek nods slowly, something shifting in his expression. “The therapist says the same thing. That it’s never too late to start doing better.”
Before I can respond, Miss Lee calls for everyone to take their seats. The ceremony begins with typical preschool charm—slightly off-key singing, one child who waves at his grandparents through the entire first song, another who forgets her lines and just grins at the audience instead.
But when Milo’s turn comes to recite his “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up” poem, he stands straight and proud and speaks clearly about wanting to be a librarian who reads stories to children and makes magic with books.
“Because stories help people feel better when they’re sad, and everyone deserves to feel safe when they’re scared, and magic is for sharing, not hiding.”
Through our bond, I feel Aspen’s pride and joy, her amazement at how articulate and confident he’s become. In the audience, Derek wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and Mrs. Moskowitz sniffles loudly enough that several people turn to look.
After the ceremony, as families mingle and take photos, Derek approaches Milo with his wrapped gift.
“This is for you, graduation boy. Something to help you remember how proud your old dad is today.”
Milo unwraps it carefully to reveal a beautiful hardcover book about dinosaurs—not the flashy, expensive kind Derek used to bring, but a thoughtful choice that shows he’s been paying attention to his son’s interests.
“Thank you, Daddy! Can you read it to me sometime?”
“I’d love to,” Derek says, and his voice is thick with emotion. “Maybe this weekend, if Mama says it’s okay.”
The easy way he defers to Aspen’s judgment, the genuine interest in spending time reading rather than just playing with toys—everything about Derek’s behavior suggests real change, not just performance.
“Of course it’s okay,” Aspen says warmly. “Milo loves being read to.”
As families begin to leave, heading home for naps and celebrations, Derek lingers awkwardly near the exit.
“I know you probably have plans for the rest of the day,” he says to Aspen. “I don’t want to intrude, but I was wondering… would it be okay if I took Milo for ice cream? Just for an hour or so? I promise to have him back by naptime.”
The request is respectful, timely, and focused on what Milo would enjoy rather than what Derek wants. Through our bond, I feel Aspen’s surprise and cautious optimism.
“What do you think, Bug?” she asks Milo. “Ice cream with Daddy?”
“Can Mama and Poppa Sebastian come too?” Milo asks immediately. “Like a family ice cream party?”
Derek’s face goes through several expressions—surprise, consideration, and then something that might be relief. “That sounds great, if everyone wants to.”
An hour later, we’re sitting around a picnic table at Scoops & Smiles, watching Milo work his way through a cone of rainbow sherbet while Derek tells him stories about his own preschool graduation.
The conversation flows more easily than I would have imagined, focused on Milo’s happiness rather than adult tensions.
“Remember when you were little,” Derek asks Milo, “and you used to line up all your toy dinosaurs before bed?”
“I still do that!” Milo giggles. “But now Poppa Sebastian helps me make up stories about where they’re going on adventures.”
“That’s cool. Maybe you could tell me some of those stories sometime?”
“I could! There’s this one about a T-Rex who learns to be gentle, and another about a triceratops who makes friends with a bird…”
As Milo launches into an elaborate dinosaur tale, Derek listens with genuine attention, asking questions and responding to plot twists with appropriate amazement.
This is what being present looks like—not grand gestures or expensive gifts, but focused attention and authentic interest in a child’s inner world.
When it’s time to head home, Derek hugs Milo goodbye and thanks both Aspen and me for including him.
“This was really nice,” he says awkwardly. “I hope… I mean, if there are other things like this, other family stuff, I’d like to be included. If that’s okay.”
“Derek,” Aspen says gently, “you’re Milo’s father. When you show up consistently and keep your promises, you’ll always be welcome.”
“I’m working on that. The showing up part. The keeping promises part.” He looks directly at me. “Sebastian, I want you to know—I’m not trying to compete with you or take your place. I can see how much Milo loves you, how secure you make him feel. I just want to find my own place in his life.”
“There’s room for both of us,” I tell him honestly. “Milo’s got a big heart. The more people who love him reliably, the stronger he becomes.”
On the drive home, Milo falls asleep in his car seat, exhausted from excitement and sugar. Through our bond, I feel Aspen’s quiet amazement at how the day unfolded.
“He’s really trying,” she murmurs.
“He is. And if he keeps it up…”
“Milo gets to have two dads who both show up for him.”
The thought fills me with unexpected hope. Not because I need Derek’s approval or friendship, but because Milo deserves every possible source of love and stability. The more adults who can be counted on to keep their promises, the more secure he becomes.
That evening, as we’re getting ready for our graduation celebration dinner, my phone buzzes with a text from Thaddeus: On my way. Hope you made enough food for someone who hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Sloane’s bringing dessert and says she’s excited to hear about the ceremony.
“Thad’s almost here,” I tell Aspen, who’s pulling garlic bread from the oven.
“Good. Milo’s been asking about Uncle Thad all week.”