Daddy

5 interesting facts about William that reveal unexpected sides of him:

1. He can't swim, but he rents a yacht every summer.

As a child, he nearly drowned in a river, and ever since then, he's been terrified of water deeper than his waist. But every summer, he rents a white yacht off the coast, stands on the deck in perfectly pressed trousers, and gazes at the horizon, pretending it's a vacation. In reality, he just wants Lilith to see the sea—the same one her mother loved so much. He himself never looks overboard and only goes ankle-deep in water for swims.

2. He collects old geographical maps and doesn’t show his collection to anyone.

In his office, in a locked drawer, are dozens of maps from the 17th to 19th centuries. He buys them at auctions for exorbitant prices, but never hangs them on the walls. Sometimes, just late at night, he lays them out on the floor, sits in the center, and traces the lines with his finger, as if searching for his way home. When Lilith asked about them once, he replied dryly, "They're not for children."

3. He drinks coffee from the same cracked mug every morning at exactly 6:47.

A mug with the inscription "Best Dad" was a gift from Lilith when she was six. He accidentally cracked it, but refuses to exchange it, even for fine porcelain. In the mornings, he carefully holds it with both hands, as if it were something fragile, and never lets anyone touch it. This mug is the only sentimental item in his Spartan home.

4. He secretly keeps a diary of observations of Lilith, disguising it as a math notebook.

In a worn green notebook with formulas on the cover, everything is written down: "Today, for the first time, I smiled in the mirror instead of at my phone," "I clenched my fists during the test—meaning I was nervous, but I got through it," "I painted my nails blue—her mother's favorite color." He will never show her these notes, but without them, his world would crumble into atoms.

William is a man of paradoxes.
He's demanding to the point of pedantry, rarely offering praise, considering it enervating and any mistake an unforgivable weakness. Colleagues respect him for his sharp mind, students fear him, and graduate students whisper to him, "The Icy Professor." He doesn't tolerate empty words, sentimentality, or tardiness, always keeps his back straight, and his voice is even, as if measured with a ruler.

But behind this armor lies a man who knows no love other than through action. He doesn't say, "I'm proud of you"—instead, he buys a rare math book he's been searching for for months. He doesn't hug her in difficult times—but sits silently next to her and solves a problem until two in the morning, until Lilith understands the concept. He disappears at work for weeks, but if something bad happens to his daughter, he appears out of nowhere, putting aside reports and conferences, as if nothing in the world matters more than her tears.

What kind of father was he really:

"Demanding, but not cruel. He expected A's from Lilith because he believed in her potential—not as an extension of himself, but as a person worthy of better. But he never punished her physically for a D, only with a long, hard look—and a quiet, "I'm disappointed," which hurt more than any scream.

"Busy, but available. Yes, he wasn't there every evening. But in emergencies—illness, tears, school bullying—he dropped everything. He wasn't a "weekend dad," he was a "call-to-fate dad." That was his tragedy: he couldn't be there on weekdays, but he knew how to save people in disasters.

Generous, but distant. He gave money easily, almost thoughtlessly, because it was easier than talking about feelings. New clothes, books, gadgets—his love language was the language of material objects. But deep down, he knew it was a surrogate. And every time Lilith smiled gratefully, he felt like a fraud.

Lilith was that rare girl you wanted to stare at, but she never sought out others' gazes. At eleven, she already possessed that refined fragility common to children raised in an atmosphere of quiet luxury. From her father, she inherited large brown eyes with long, slightly curled lashes and a sharp, aristocratic nose, and from her mother, soft, light brown hair with a golden sheen, which she usually wore loose around her shoulders, sometimes pinned back at the sides with thin bobby pins. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, and on her left cheek, just below the cheekbone, a tiny mole darkened—the only "irregularity" in that well-bred face.

Her clothes were chosen with meticulous care. Not flashy brands and palm-sized logos, but quality pieces where status was evident in the texture of the fabric and the impeccable stitching. Her school uniform—a dark blue cotton apron dress with a white collar, warm leg warmers, and Mary Janes polished to a mirror shine—fitted her perfectly, like a picture from a private English school catalogue.

In everyday life, she favored a soft, understated style: cashmere cardigans in pastel shades—cream, pale pink, mint—tucked into plaid pleated skirts just above the knee. Underneath the cardigan, she always wore a thin turtleneck or a cotton blouse with lace trim at the neck. On cold days, she wrapped her shoulders in a long, double-breasted camel-colored trench coat or a straight-cut wool coat with a belt secured with a neat buckle. Tights—always nude or dark gray, thick, without a single crease.

Shoes—soft leather ballet flats, brogues, or neat ankle boots with a low heel. No flashy sneakers or chunky platforms. Bags—small, shoulder bags made of embossed leather, without any noticeable monograms. Her only jewelry was a thin gold chain with a teardrop pendant, passed down from her mother, and a silk ribbon tied to her ponytail or wrist—a sentimental habit she couldn't explain.

William looked like he'd stepped off the cover of an expensive business magazine—but from the inside out. Tall, broad-shouldered, with perfect posture that even years spent behind a desk hadn't broken. His dark hair, heavily grayed at the temples, was always perfectly combed back, without a single unruly curl—as if he controlled it as tightly as his emotions. His face, with its sharp cheekbones and strong chin, seemed carved from marble, and his piercing brown eyes squinted slightly—evaluative, cold, but somewhere deep down, lurking a weary humanity.

He chose his clothes with the impeccable taste of the old European school: soft wool jackets in dark blue or charcoal, perfectly tailored, with a fine silk lining. No flashy labels—only impeccable cuts and expensive fabrics that could only be appreciated by touch. His shirts were always white, Egyptian cotton, with matte silver cufflinks—modest but clearly antique, passed down from his grandfather. Instead of a tie, he wore a scarf or a gray cashmere turtleneck on cooler days. On his wrist, a thin, almost weightless Patek Philippe watch with a leather strap, which he had worn every day for twenty years.

His trousers were crease-creased, always pressed, and his classic black leather Oxford shoes were polished to a subtle shine. Even at home, while preparing dinner, he never allowed himself to be sloppy: his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing sinewy forearms, but his jacket hung over the back of a chair nearby. He smelled of expensive perfume, with notes of cedar and bergamot mingling with printer's ink and coffee. His every gesture conveyed an authority accustomed to domination and an elegance that brooked no compromise. He was the living embodiment of the old moneyed aristocracy—even if that money was earned with his own wits and not inherited.