"Could 'ave given ye a lot more than a slap on t' wrist," Bill muttered under his breath. He pulled his cup closer and took a sip. He thought about his own sentence, and how it had destroyed his family and condemned him to several years in hell. John had no idea how bad it could have been for him. He thought about that Ward lad who had gotten himself hanged. How it had reminded him of John and what could have become of him. God, he was glad to hear that John seemed more sensible now, and he hoped the young man meant what he said.

Proud. Was he proud of his children? Was that what they wanted from him? Bill wrapped his hands around his cup and observed his oldest son. Once upon a time, he had wanted his parents to be proud of him. Then it had become forever impossible. There were times when he looked at his children and felt a cruel urge to break them in the same way. To let them know how it felt. It horrified him when he observed it in himself and he'd keep a tight reign on it; he let Lottie deal with them, and focused on providing for them, making sure they never knew poverty. But anger could loosen the reigns, and John in particular had provoked him with all his antics. There had been times he had hated John.

Bill's hands tightened around the cup. He looked at the liquid. "Ye must do what ye do for yerself, son. Not for me. But I am glad to 'ear it. And glad ye want to improve yer letters." School hadn't done the kid much good back in the day, given his truancy record and lazy attitude. He looked up. "Just make sure she doesn't get distracted from 'er own school work. She's t' only one of ye that hasn't yet tried pushin' yer mum into an early grave."