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Chapter 145
The gardener once asked Enoch why he kept circling Florence even though she seemed to hate him.
“Doesn’t she?”
“She frowns and yells whenever she sees you. Isn’t that hate?”
“….”
“What did you do to earn her hatred?”
“I must’ve done something. I’m not sure myself.”
“You’re too kind, boy. I doubt you ever did wrong.”
Kind? How could he know that? Enoch only felt frustrated. Always frustrated. Florence was lovable and infuriating all at once. It angered him when she pushed him away, pained him when she begged for affection in foolish places, and tore at him when she cried from being hurt.
Anyone could see he liked her.
Even while studying, he’d worry whether she had eaten and sneak to the kitchen to check. He’d hover near her door once or twice a day just to talk. If she was reading, he’d make sure her next book was placed within easy reach in the library. Any snack he got, half went straight to her.
His affection was so plain it was harder not to notice. Everyone but the Seymours had seen it.
And yet, Florence—who hungered so desperately for love—was blind to his. Enoch himself hadn’t realized until he was nineteen, the day he asked her to run away with him. Who was he to call her slow?
But one thing was certain:
From childhood, no matter how frustrated or insulted he felt, Enoch Hains had never once managed to win against Florence.
Her teary eyes always disarmed him. He’d rush to soothe her, to erase whatever hurt her—even when she’d cursed and told him to get lost.
She said he’d often been angry with her, but the truth was he’d never truly been angry at all.
Two years had passed since their wedding.
Enoch now wondered—maybe her dislike for him as a boy hadn’t just been jealousy. The gardener had insisted she hated him because he’d done something. Florence herself had claimed he’d done nothing wrong. But what if she’d been kind, sparing him?
The girl who had never spared a cruel word for him—what if even then she’d been protecting him?
But this theory was the only way he could explain what came after.
“Waaaahhh!”
“…Mia, calm down…”
“Shiiieee!”
“Mia—”
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
“Mia, I’m your father!”
“Huuhhh… so scaaryyy, Mamaaa!”
His own daughter—his blood—wailed the moment she saw him.
Mia arched back so far it looked painful. Her chubby arms and legs kicked, desperate to escape his hold. Enoch stared, helpless, as her face turned red from screaming.
For her first six months, things had been fine—better than fine. She and Enoch had been inseparable. He carried her everywhere, even when her spit-up drenched his shoulder. To him, none of it was dirty. She was his and Florence’s child. Florence often had to shove him off just to get him cleaned up.
But after six months, Mia began to reject him.
Everyone said it was just a phase of stranger anxiety. But how could he be a stranger when he’d been there since the moment she was born? He’d spent more time with her than Florence had.
“Waaaahhh!”
“Calm down, Mia.”
“Uuuaaahhh!”
“You’ll hurt your throat.”
“Noooo!”
Her cries were so desperate Enoch finally set her down, drained. Mia’s stubbornness, her clear likes and dislikes—it was Florence all over again.
At that moment, Keith and Florence rushed in. Keith scooped Mia up instantly.
“Mia, why are you crying again?”
“Hic… hic…”
And just like that, she calmed. No pushing away, no wailing. She snuggled into Keith’s chest, and Enoch thought he might start crying.
Florence patted his arm.
“It’s just a long phase, Enoch…”
“Then why doesn’t she reject Keith?”
Keith kissed the top of Mia’s head and winked.
“Guess I’m better looking than you.”
Florence shot him a sharp look.
“Keith, don’t tease him. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“…Sorry.”
But Enoch barely heard. His eyes stayed on Mia, peaceful in another man’s arms.
The truth was, Florence and Keith already had an idea why Mia feared him.
“Smile a little, Enoch. She won’t be scared if you smile.”
“My face is scary?”
“Not scary. Just… too stiff. You’re so cautious you look angry.”
Florence covered his eyes with her hand. His stern jaw and tight mouth did look harsh. She knew that if Mia only looked into his blue eyes, she’d see how tenderly he adored her.
But like young Florence once had, Mia must have thought: Daddy hates me. Daddy’s mad.
Enoch was simply misunderstood—by mother and daughter both.
“Do you hate her, then? Because she hates you?” Florence asked gently.
“Don’t be absurd.”
He laughed softly. She knew he would.
Mia was a handful. Sensitive, prone to tears, often sick. Florence had collapsed more than once from exhaustion. Enoch, Keith, and even Laila took turns helping.
If Florence had been alone, she couldn’t have endured it. But she wasn’t alone.
And though Mia rejected him, Enoch never lost patience. He only worried—would she hurt her throat, would she exhaust herself, would she stop breathing? Even Keith and quick-tempered Laila never once got angry at Mia’s crying.
“Try smiling, like this,” Florence coaxed.
“….”
“How did smiling go again?”
He could laugh out loud in front of Florence now, but his face was still stiff when it came to others. She rubbed his back comfortingly.
“Let’s wait until Mia’s a little older, Enoch.”
“….”
“I’ll teach her you’re her father.”
Enoch looked at Mia resting in Keith’s arms. She was Florence’s daughter in every way.
Not even a trace of me… except that she pushes me away, just like her mother once did.
And yet, just as Florence was Florence Love Seymour, Enoch was Enoch Hains.
He had always been good at one thing—unrequited love.
Florence stroked his hair and guided his hand to her belly, whispering:
“This one will take after you.”
