Baby Squirrel Is Good at Everything-Chapter 58

"Your sister left behind nothing but a burden..."

A perpetually irritable expression.

Sharp words that jabbed at her every time they met.

Beatty understood her aunt’s reaction.

She had no choice but to understand—it was the only way for a child who had nothing.

When her aunt gripped her shoulder tightly, telling her never to forget the debt she owed, Beatty quietly nodded.

Even when she agreed without objection, her aunt never stopped talking.

An abandoned child, sent off to live with relatives without a single coin.

A father who didn’t even want to see her face. A burden, leeching off her aunt’s goodwill...

Until those repeated words felt like undeniable truth.

***

And so, now, Beatty could not help but be shocked.

Father has no interest in me.

The proof?

He abandoned me in the capital and never sent a single coin for my upbringing.

To Beatty, that had always been an absolute truth.

Aunt always said so. That not a single coin or letter had ever arrived for me.

So, she had no choice but to believe that her father had no interest in her.

But what if that premise—the truth she had no choice but to accept—had been wrong from the very beginning?

Could it be...?

Thump.

Beatty’s heart began to pound softly.

An unthinkable possibility surfaced in her mind, spinning in chaotic circles.

Her head felt light, her vision swimming.

Father... actually...

It was still too uncertain for her to put into words.

She felt embarrassed just for entertaining the thought, swallowing it down before it could escape.

“......”

After that, Beatty felt as if she were in a trance.

Without realizing it, she stood up, unaware that something had slipped from her grasp.

Father.

She didn't quite have the courage to call him that just yet.

So instead, she asked,

"Did you... send money for my upbringing?"

Her father’s expression, caught off guard, came into view.

She had never seen such a look on his face before.

Ah, so it was a pointless question after all.

Thinking that, Beatty's steps faltered.

Now that she considered it, even her voice had been pitiful.

Drop.

Her small head drooped as if it were too heavy.

She had come here to deliver useful news—about the valuable gift she had prepared, the successful banquet.

She had planned to report things that would bring him satisfaction.

Yet here she was, bringing up something completely unrelated, her voice unsteady and unconvincing.

At this rate, forget investment—I'll be lucky if he doesn’t just get annoyed and tell me to leave the estate sooner.

Beatty habitually judged herself harshly, trying to redirect her thoughts.

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Just then, she caught sight of the large front of a polished shoe.

The déjà vu-like sight made her look up.

Somehow, at some point, her father had approached and was now standing right before her.

"What are you doing here?"

His brows furrowed in displeasure, and instinctively, Beatty flinched.

It was a tiny movement.

But the Duke, who never overlooked even the slightest change in his daughter’s demeanor, noticed immediately.

Is she afraid?

The Duke regretted his actions.

He should have taken her underground first, as usual.

Letting his emotions get the better of him and questioning her inside the mansion had been a mistake.

To have shown such a harsh expression in front of the child who should only see and hear good things...

...She won’t start avoiding me because of this, will she?

A man who had once remained unflinching even when an enemy’s arrow brushed past his ear now found himself gripped by an unfamiliar anxiety.

Children grew up fast. One day, she might say, "Father is annoying," and refuse to be around him.

And if, from that small mouth, the words "I hate Father" were ever uttered...

The Duke’s eyes wavered at the thought of such a future—one he didn’t even want to imagine.

"Ah, um..."

Caught off guard, Beatty blinked.

What was I about to say?

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She lightly chastised herself, hesitating to continue.

Had she been left alone, she might have simply closed her mouth again.

But even the barely perceptible motion of her lips did not escape the Duke’s notice.

"Speak."

"!"

Beatty’s eyes widened at the sight before her.

The Duke had knelt on one knee—bringing himself down to her eye level.

Even without being familiar with noble customs, Beatty knew one thing:

A high-ranking noble like the Duke would never lower himself so easily.

He’s... trying to meet my eyes?

So close now that she no longer needed to crane her neck to look up, she found that the Duke’s gaze felt oddly soft.

Golden eyes, warm like sunlight.

As she met them, the anxiety swirling inside her melted away, little by little.

"...Could it be."

Her lips, which had been glued shut like hardened glue, slowly parted.

"Could it be... that you ever sent money for my upbringing?"

The moment the question left her lips, the Duke’s brows furrowed again.

She panicked at his reaction, but with all the courage she could muster, she forced herself to finish her question.

"Even just once...?"

Her voice trailed off at the end, but for her, the question carried immense weight.

Her aunt had always said:

"A discarded daughter isn't worth even a single coin."

Which meant, if she reversed that statement—

If even once, even just once, he had sent money for her...

Then that meant he had some interest in her.

That he had, even a little, considered her his daughter.

Clenching the hand placed over her chest, Beatty watched as the Duke slowly opened his mouth.

"Of course."

"...!"

At the immediate response, Beatty’s eyes widened.

His voice was clear, decisive—leaving no room for doubt.

Thump, thump.

Feeling her heartbeat quicken, Beatty swallowed nervously.

It was possible he had sent money just for the sake of appearances.

Or maybe he had done it precisely so he wouldn’t have to think about her anymore.

But still, at the very least—

He...

Had not forgotten her.

"Father remembered me...!"

A hope she had thought long extinguished—

"Ah... Ah."

—had begun to sprout again, helplessly.

...?

Beatty tilted her head in confusion.

Her voice had made a strange sound just now.

Her vision blurred.

Drip.

Her young body, still unfamiliar with controlling its reactions, left her bewildered.

Why was she crying?

She wasn’t even that sad.

No—if anything, shouldn’t she be happy that her father had at least remembered her?

"Yes, this is a good thing."

She tried to convince herself.

Drip, drip.

But like an unexpected summer rain, the tears continued to fall, soaking the front of her clothes.

"Ah, my child...!"

Her father’s alarmed voice rang out.

For the first time, the Duke—who always remained composed—was visibly flustered.

And then, in front of Beatty’s bewildered, tear-streaked gaze—

Thud.

Her father dropped to both knees.

Beatty froze.

Like a man seeking forgiveness, the Duke knelt before her, reaching out.

"!"

His large, warm hand cupped her tear-drenched cheek.

The heat of his palm enveloped her face.

Gently, he wiped away her tears.

"Don’t cry..."

His voice wavered ever so slightly.

Strangely, hearing those words made her feel warm inside.

And yet, her tears only fell harder.

As more teardrops splashed onto the floor—

"Are you hurt somewhere?"

The Duke’s worry deepened.

"My child."

"Hic...."

Beatty sniffled.

And as she hiccupped, her puffed-up cheeks made her look utterly ridiculous.

But instead of laughing, the Duke spoke seriously.

"Is there anything you want? If you stop crying, I’ll have that townhouse built immediately."

Beatty, seeing her father missing the point again—

"...Pfft."

—couldn’t help but laugh.

Beatty smiled.

Her cheeks were still drenched with tears, yet she pulled them into a gentle curve.

Seeing that tear-streaked smile, the Duke's expression became indescribable.

Why was his child smiling like that?

Why did it feel so painfully fragile?

The urge to tear apart the cause of that sorrow—into a thousand shreds—overwhelmed him.

"That word... Aga... Are you referring to me?"

Beatty asked hesitantly, a hint of shyness in her voice.

At the unexpected question, the Duke blinked once before giving a slow nod.

"Of course."

It was obvious.

There was only one person he would ever call Aga.

"Aga."

As if following the name he had always called her in his heart, he spoke it aloud once more.

And at that moment—

Whoosh!

Beatty's face turned as red as a ripened autumn leaf.