Author's Note: Sabi ( LemonLattes) put in a request for vignettes of Chuck and Blair with their parents during their future milestones. (Actually, she asked specifically for happy vignettes, but I'm giving myself some wiggle room.) Since today is her birthday, I just had to oblige and pass along my wishes for a very happy birthday and a wonderful year of being eighteen!

She used to dream about her daughter's wedding day. Big, fanciful dreams where her daughter would stand in a gleaming white gown under sparkling chandeliers and everyone would exclaim in awe about how wonderful and beautiful her daughter looked. The dreams were silly considering who she is, considering that she never dreamed about her own wedding as a child.

Her childhood did not allow for dreams; the narrow space afforded to her by her name and money meant that she would find a respectable man from a respectable family with a respectable amount of money and she would be a respectable wife with a respectable family because that was what was expected of her, because in her world – in the world her daughter was born into – there are always caveats. She was born to be respectable, a realist who would grin and bear anything thrown her way.

And that's what she did for so many years. Grin and bear it. Act respectable. She started her design company when she discovered that being a respectable mother, a respectable wife left her unfulfilled. She channeled all her love and respect into that company whilst trying to raise her daughter to be the kind of woman that reflected favorably upon their family and station.

Thin. Beautiful. Accomplished. And, above all else, respectable.

So when she dreamed of her daughter's wedding, when she mapped out her daughter's life, it began and ended with respectability, with her respectable daughter being escorted down the aisle by her respectable father to her respectable groom.

Her own respectability would be tarnished by the revelation of her husband's sexuality, by his decision to flee for Paris with his lover and without the daughter that so very clearly wanted to go with him rather than stay in New York with her mother. But his decision to leave, to be honest with the world about who he is made her stronger and more powerful and, oddly enough, more capable of loving someone despite all their flaws because her second husband may be short and have an odd sense of humor, but she loves him for him and he loves her for her.

And, in turn, that gives her the strength to stop fixating on this idea of respectability and start seeing this beautiful, wonderful, amazing woman she had been so quick to mold and force into the narrow dimensions of respectability.

But her daughter had been shaped and molded for far too long, had held herself up to the measure of respectability for far too long that her mother's revelation had come to quick. And she had tried to stop it, stop the ceremony by which her respectable daughter would be escorted down the aisle by her respectable father wearing a gleaming white gown to the respectable groom standing under sparkling chandeliers because that respectable groom will never love her daughter the way a man who has done unrespectable things will. Because she doesn't want her daughter to wake up sixteen years from now and realize that respectability is nothing compared to happiness.

But her daughter did have to learn that lesson, and maybe it was closer to sixteen weeks than sixteen years, but the time between her daughter's chances at happiness was far too long for a mother's liking. And maybe the blue dress and the natural light of Central Park were not her original dream for her daughter, maybe the sirens wailing as they approach signify the unrespectable parts of her daughter and her new son-in-law, but in this moment Eleanor can count three times she has been this gleefully happy – the day her daughter was born, the day she married her second husband, and the day Blair finally married the unrespectable man who has nothing but the utmost respect and love for her.

The hour is late as he shuffles down the long hallway towards the kitchen, as he anticipates digging into the pie stored and wrapped in fridge when movement in the darkness catches his eyes. He pauses in the middle of the hallway, peers around the corner as his eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. And then he smiles at the sight of father and son swaying side to side, swaying in that familiar movement he employed many, many years ago. He watches as lips pucker and press against the crown of the baby's head, against the cowlick of dark hair.

He steps into the room when watching is not enough, when his hands ache to hold that beautiful baby. The man currently holding and swaying apologizes for awakening him, shushing the whimpering baby in his arms with the tired plea of a parent running on little to no sleep. And the older man holds out his hands in a silent offer to take the baby for a period of time; an offer that is hesitantly yet gratefully accepted as the baby is passed into his hands. Maybe he hoovers for just a bit longer, maybe the older man has to tell him to go before he disappears down the hallway back to the guest bedroom where his wife slumbers and dreams about her successful show.

But eventually he leaves and it is just him and the baby swaying in the middle of the living room. Big, brown eyes look up at him and search his for the assurance that their owner is safe, that their owner can fall apart and yet be held together. He's seen these eyes before, seen this exact look far too many times before.

It is hesitant and unsure; searching for a soft place to land. And he swoops in once again, cuddles the baby closer and tries to offer him the reassurance that he will always be here. That their time together will always be not enough; that he will always be prepared to offer this handsome little boy hugs and words of encouragement when the world leaves him cautious and insecure, broken and battered.

He may not share his blood; he may not be of his faith. But this perfect little boy is family. The child of the young lady who entered his life with a kick and a scheme only to worm her way so deep in his heart that the designation of "step" seems superfluous and silly. Because she sits on the same level as his own son; because he would never ask her to take a seat lower than that of Aaron. Because Blair is daughter and Henry is his grandson, and no one can ever say that Cyrus does not possess more enough love for the both of them.

She reminds herself that this is routine, but the antiseptic smell assaults her senses and she cannot help but worry. She has been her one too many times, sat beside each bed and held the hand of the occupant as she hoped and prayed for them to awaken. One with a bandage around his wrist, two with bandages around their heads, and all three awakened with another woman's name on their lips. Yet she told herself that it was okay because they were alive and that's all that matters.

Yet here she is again, sitting in this room that looks so much like the others before it waiting and watching and worrying. And she wants to comfort because that's what a mother does, that's what she does. She may not be the best mother, but she tries to be there in the moments that truly matter, in the moments where up is down and down is up.

So she leans over, squeezes the free hand of the child of hers that sits beside her, and feels the stress and the worry and the concern rolling off him in waves. He may not smile at her and she may not be able to help him fight his fears as well as the other woman holding his hand, but she can be here for him. Can sit beside him and hold his hand in this space just as she has done many times before.

The door to the room pushing open sends him jumping to his feet, and he lets go of her hand to step towards the bed being wheeled into the room. The hand she once held reaches out to stroke brown hair, to hold tiny fingers in his own as his voice breaks in a desperate question.

The doctor assures them that the surgery went well in that same monotonous voice she has heard many times before. And it strikes her as odd that doctors speak in the same manner regardless of the nature of the news. Almost as though they remain so detached that they cannot even muster a smile for a parent who has waited anxiously beside their child's bed for a better outcome than the one they have created in their head.

This patient's parents are cautioned against providing hot foods for the next few weeks, are cautioned to take care when asking their little boy to speak because his throat will hurt for the next few days. All the words she heard before but for a very different cause, for a very different kind of surgery than this one. Her son's smile is a reflection of the one that graced her lips during this moment. Yet her son can ask to do something she could not for a four-year-old is far easier to hold than a grown man.

The man in the blue surgical gap and gown relents with a wary tone and carefully helps to transfer the patient into his patient's father's arms after he takes a seat. And she watches him cuddle his child close, watches him hold more than just his child's hand as he waits for him to awaken.

The little boy's eyes open slowly, flutter as he tries to get used to the glare of the lights once more, and everyone around him talks in soft whispers as they try to coax him back to the land of the living. But one voice rises above the other, and the little boy seems to relax at the sound, turning his body despite the pain and curling in deeper into his father's embrace.

She watches as the fear begins to melt off his face, wonders if that is how her children felt when they awoke and saw her all those times she sat beside his bed or her daughter's bed or her other son's bed. But then she thinks that maybe it wasn't the same for her children because no one loves as deeply as her son, because Lily will never be the kind of parent to her children that Chuck is to Henry.

Over twenty years ago, he stood in the middle of this frozen oval, held her hands, and promised to never let go. She wobbled and teetered precariously on the thin blade of her skates, but her smiles were wide and just for him as he helped her glide across the ice for the first time.

It had been the start of a tradition for the two of them. A tradition that began with a loop around the rink holding hands and ended with a cup of hot chocolate to warm them on the walk home through Central Park. A tradition that remained after she became a teenager, after she became moody and distant and starting controlling her body in a way he did not see for a long time. And people told him he was lucky that his daughter still wanted to be seen in public with him, still wanted to hold his hand as she skated around the oval and demanded that he never let go.

But he had let go and escaped to France, escaped to create a new life where she only fit in on holidays and where the two of them actually meant three. The tradition continued for one more year, but was dashed almost as soon as it began and then faded way as she grew up, as her life grew apart from his. It wasn't the only tradition lost in the distance between New York and Paris, in the distance between Daddy's little girl and the woman she was becoming.

Yet it was the one he missed the most. Homemade pumpkin pie can be created anywhere, and it doesn't always have been served at Thanksgiving as he showed her that one summer she showed up at his vineyard refusing to discuss yet clearly distraught over her vacation in Italy.

But the ice skating rink at Central Park is unique unto itself; an experience he cannot recreate anywhere else. And he told himself that fact was the reason why their tradition floundered, why he could no longer hold her hand and promise to never let go.

When, in fact, he couldn't make that promise because he didn't know how to make that promise anymore, didn't know how to be her father when he barely fit inside her life. He was supposed to be there for her biggest moments, for her crowning achievements yet France and the vineyard and Roman called his name and kept him away from cotillion, from Thanksgiving, from graduation, from her second wedding, from the birth of his first grandchild, and from all the minor moments in between.

The invitation to spend the holidays with came in a dutiful phone call, in the dispatch of a daughter who long ago learned to stop holding her breath. And maybe his answer had surprised her, but he had heard her words and repeated them to back to her as a statement and then ordered the smallest size of skates he could find. The box accompanied him across the ocean, treasured inside his luggage until now when he bends on one knee and offers them to their tiny owner in the same manner he had nearly twenty years ago.

The owner of these skates watches with wide eyes as the laces are tied, as the people on the ice rink move so quickly that they become nothing but colorful swirls in the background. He slips his hand inside his grandfather's, holds tightly while the three of them walk towards the ice.

He wobbles and teeters precariously on the thin blade of his skates, nearly falls when he begins gliding across the ice. But his mother swoops in and catches him, takes his hand and holds him steady until he finds his footing. And he meets her gaze with an anxious look, with a hesitant question.

"Henry, I will hold your hand as long as you need me," she promises before turning to her father and holding out her free hand to him. "Here, Daddy, I'll hold yours, too."

And as he glides over to her, Harold cannot help but be grateful that his daughter is always there to hold his hand, always willing to fight for and support those she loves even when they maybe don't deserve it.