They'd never got along in any case, Demeter standing with Hestia and fussing over home and hearth and children when the first appeared, and Hades and Hera always with their heads together dreaming themselves into kingdoms and onto thrones.
And he'd left, anyway, long before Demeter had had her daughter, and none of these bright young gods had had him for an uncle in any true fashion and he'd asked Zeus, whose was the permission that should have mattered, and he'd asked Persephone, whose was the permission that did.
But he'd been young in the dark confines of their father's belly, and Demeter had held his hands and sung to him of the earth above and its beauty and its kindness, and it hurt to watch her turn her face from him and hang onto his wife, her child, as though he had come thieving into her house.