CHAPTER 188
HARRY'S POV
The workshop I'd built in our basement had become my sanctuary over the past six months since we'd started homeschooling the children. What had begun as a simple metalworking space had evolved into something approaching a teaching laboratory, where I could pass on skills that most kids would never learn in traditional schools.
"Uncle Harry," Addison called from her position at the smaller workbench I'd custom-built for her height, "the tempering isn't working right. The steel keeps getting too brittle."
I set down my own project - a decorative gate for our garden that incorporated security features Skylar had requested - and moved to examine her work. At ten years old, she was attempting to forge a small knife, something that would have horrified most parents but which we'd agreed was an appropriate skill for her to develop.
"What temperature are you using for the quench?" I asked, checking the propane forge we'd modified for safety.
"You said 1475 degrees, but I think I might be going too high."
"Show me your technique."
I watched as she carefully heated the blade to a bright orange glow, her movements precise and controlled despite her young age. The protective equipment we'd invested in made her look like a miniature blacksmith, complete with leather apron and safety glasses.
"There," I said, noting the color change in the steel. "You're hitting about 1500. Try backing off just a touch."
Through the basement windows, I could see Jax in the garden with Liam and Elena, teaching them to identify edible plants versus poisonous ones. What looked like a nature lesson was actually survival training, but our children approached it with the same enthusiasm other kids might show for video games.
"Is this what your father taught you?" Addison asked, adjusting the forge temperature with the careful attention she brought to everything.
The question caught me off guard. We'd told the children that my parents had died when I was young, but we'd never gone into detail about how I'd learned my skills.
"My father died before he could teach me much of anything," I said honestly. "I learned metalworking from other people who became my family."
"Like how you became our family?"
"Something like that, yes."
"Were you sad when your parents died?"
I paused in my work, considering how much truth to share with a ten-year-old who was already more emotionally mature than most adults.
"I was angry more than sad," I said finally. "Angry that they were taken away from me, angry that I couldn't protect them, angry that the people who hurt them got away with it for so long."
"But you got revenge eventually, didn't you?"
The casual way she said it made my blood run cold. We'd been careful never to discuss the violent details of our past, but somehow she'd absorbed the understanding that we'd eliminated threats to our family.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because you and Mama and the other uncles don't let bad people hurt good people. That's what you do."
"It's more complicated than that, sweetheart."
"Is it? When someone hurts your family, you stop them. That's what families do."
I watched her return to her metalworking, her small hands guiding the hammer with precision that spoke of months of practice. She was creating something beautiful and functional, learning skills that connected her to centuries of human craftsmanship.
But she was also learning to see violence as a normal part of family life.
"Addison," I said carefully, "there's a difference between protecting people and getting revenge."
"What's the difference?"
"Protection is about stopping immediate threats. Revenge is about punishment after the fact."
"But if you don't punish bad people, won't they just hurt other people later?"
The logic was sound, and disturbingly similar to the justifications we'd used for our own actions over the years. How do you explain to a child that the world is more complex than good guys versus bad guys when your own experience suggests that sometimes it really is that simple?
"That's why we have police and courts and laws," I said. "So that trained people can make decisions about punishment instead of families having to do it themselves."
"But what if the police and courts don't work? What if they let the bad people go free?"
"Then we find other ways to protect innocent people. Legal ways."
"Like what Mama does with the foundation?"
"Exactly like what Mama does with the foundation."
Addison was quiet for a moment, focusing on her metalwork while processing our conversation. When she spoke again, her voice carried a weight that shouldn't have existed in someone her age.
"I want to learn to fight," she said. "Not just metalworking and plant identification and first aid. I want to learn to really fight, like you and the uncles know how to fight."
"Why?"
"Because someday I'm going to help people like Mama does. And if bad people try to stop me, I want to be able to stop them back."
The workshop fell silent except for the hiss of the forge and the distant sounds of Jax teaching the younger children outside. I realized that this moment would define how our daughter saw herself and her place in the world.
"Fighting should always be the last option," I said finally. "When everything else has failed and innocent people are in immediate danger."
"I understand that. But I still want to learn."
"Why are you so sure you want to help people the way Mama does? There are lots of ways to make the world better that don't involve danger."
"Because there are children out there right now who are being hurt by bad people. And while good people are trying to help them through safe, legal ways, those children are suffering."
The conviction in her voice was absolute, and I recognized the same drive that had pushed Skylar to risk everything to save trafficking victims.
"If I teach you to fight," I said, "you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"You promise that you'll never use those skills unless someone's life is in immediate danger. Not for revenge, not to win arguments, not to solve problems that could be solved other ways."
"I promise."
"And you promise that you'll always try every other option first - talking, getting help from adults, walking away if possible."
"I promise that too."
I looked at my daughter's serious face, seeing determination that reminded me painfully of her mother at that age. The difference was that Addison was making this choice freely, surrounded by people who loved her, rather than being forced into violence by circumstances beyond her control.
"All right," I said. "But we start with discipline and control, not with combat techniques. You learn to fight the same way you learned metalworking - safely, carefully, with respect for the tools and the responsibility that comes with them."
"Thank you, Uncle Harry."
As she returned to her knife-making with renewed focus, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. We'd sworn to give our children normal lives, but normalcy seemed impossible for kids who'd inherited our sense of responsibility for protecting innocent people.
The question was whether teaching Addison to fight would make her stronger and safer, or whether it would push her further down a path that led away from the peaceful life we'd tried to build.
But watching her work the metal with patient precision, I realized that maybe the choice had never been ours to make.
Some children were born to be protectors, regardless of what their parents wanted for them.
The only question was whether we'd prepare her properly for that role, or let her learn through the kind of bitter experience that had shaped all of us.
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