I may not live to see our glory

4 ~ John?

With each passing day I spent caring for little Philip Hamilton, I grew fonder of him. He was like a mini version of his father, although imbued with the qualities of his mother: kind, grateful and forgiving. My sanity was on the edge though, as Philip was learning how to talk, and it was getting harder to keep my presence unknown. Imagine how awkward it would be if Philip went up to his dad and was like,

"Yo dad, I look like this guy that keeps following me around the house. His names John or something. Do you know him?"

And then he'd probably be like,

"Oh yeah, that's normal, my secret dead gay boyfriend is living in our house watching over my son, who looks suspiciously like him! Normal, everyday stuff!"

Hooo boy, it's really hard to negotiate with a toddler. I mean, how are you supposed to reason with someone that you don't exist, when they're the only person that can see you? Lord knows what Alexander's reaction would be if he heard Philip talking to a wall. He'd probably get carted off to some asylum or some sh!t, I don't have a clue.

"Philip, you have to pretend that I don't exist, ok? John isn't here."

So naturally, what does the son of Hamilton do? Runs up to his father, who's furiously writing and yells with the innocence of a thousand cherubs with big puppy dog eyes:

"Daddy! Want to meet my friend? John very nice! He plays with me a lot!"

Jesus f*cking christ, this kid is gonna give me a heart attack and make me die twice.

"Philip! I'm your imaginary friend, remember?"

"Oh yeah! Pa, John says he's an ima- imaginaree friend?"

I chuckled at his inability to say the word. Even though he was a little sh!t just like his father, I loved the kid, again, just like his father.

But when I looked over at Alex's face, he looked caught off-guard, like a rabbit in headlights. Memories seemed to be flooding through his mind, as they were through mine. His hand subconsciously went to the drawer that held my letter. Forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he turned back to his son.

"That's nice, Philip. Now why don't you go play with your mother? I'm busy writing the Federalist papers. Goddamn Burr didn't agree to defend the constitution, spineless as he is, and John Jay can't pull his own weight."

At this point he'd just started rambling to himself, at which point I took the opportunity to shoo Philip out of the room.

"I'll deal with you later." I hissed, turning back to Alexander.

It was at that point at which I realised how much of a mess Alexander really was. His hair resembled a pile of sh*t, his eyes were bloodshot and he had bags deep enough to rival the ocean. His desk was littered with papers and plates of uneaten food sat on the table.

How long have you been like this? You aren't the same Alexander Hamilton you were when I met you. Take a break!

***

Philip was a little older, and was just starting to grasp the concept of why he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about me. He was a smart boy and learned pretty quickly, how to lie, cheat and bluff his way through things. Despite this, Eliza instilled into him the value of being grateful for everything he was given. Overall, he was a pretty good kid. Devilish when he wanted to be, but he was a perfect reflection of both his parents.

It was his fifth birthday, and Alexander was once again overworking himself in his office. God, I wish he would come home already, his kid was running around the house asking where his dad was every five seconds. I had asked him to keep my legacy alive, but surely he could spare some time for his five year old son and his wife, right? Oh boy, what if it was my fault that he's abandoning his family? I walked into Philip's bedroom, where Eliza was dressing him up in one of Alex's old shirt and jackets. Only five, and I'm sure he would be reliable with the ladies when he was older. Or dudes, if that's what he preferred. Eliza patted his hair, which was long enough to reach his shoulders now, in a beautiful mess.