Richard loosened his tie the moment he stepped through the door the following evening, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. The sitting room was dim except for the lamps that cast warm pools of light across the floor — a gentle counterpoint to the traffic humming restlessly outside the windows.
Chloe sat curled over her laptop, brow furrowed in concentration. Across from her, Drew was deep in a fantasy novel, headphones on, the faint spill of ambient noise muffling the world around him.
For a moment, Richard simply stood there, taking them in — the quiet, the ordinary comfort of it, the two people who anchored him more than they would ever fully realise. He watched them with a tenderness that rose unexpectedly in his chest, steadying him in a way nothing else had all day.
His children.
His home.
The thought steadied him in a way he hadn't expected.
He paused beside the bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines. Dog-eared study guides. Bestsellers and fantasy novels all lined up neatly, carefully ordered by Drew. A framed photo of the three of them on the pier — sunburned, smiling, leaning into one another like a trio of mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow fit perfectly.
A memory.
A good one.
And he'd almost missed it. Years of his twenties and thirties had blurred together in a singular pursuit: growth, expansion, deadlines, proving himself worthy in rooms that often didn't value him at all. He'd believed success would mean safety. Security. Stability. A kind of armour no one could take from him.
But standing there now, listening to the soft breathing of a house finally at rest, he realised how many things he'd mistaken for essential.
Work wasn't the anchor.
Ambition wasn't the anchor.
His marriage certainly hadn't been the anchor.
The anchor had been here — these children, struggling, trying to grow into themselves while their parents drifted in separate directions.
He let out a slow breath, easing down onto the arm of the sofa, letting the present settle around him. He felt it differently tonight — clearer, quieter, steadier. For once, the past didn't pull at him like a weight. It rose in him instead like a tide, gentle and inevitable.
And his mind, unbidden, drifted back to where it all began.
Marriage settled around Richard with an odd mixture of comfort and movement — like stepping onto a train already in motion. You adjusted to its sway, its speed, its direction, even if you hadn't truly chosen the destination.
In those early months, he didn't question anything. He worked long hours, pushing for promotions, doing whatever he could to prove he was more than his modest beginnings. Eleanor, meanwhile, moved effortlessly through new social circles — luncheons, gallery openings, rooftop gatherings with people who spoke loudly, but listened rarely.
The rhythm felt… normal enough.
Not perfect.
But acceptable.
He remembered being nervous back then — too aware of the dust still under his nails from job-site visits, too conscious of the way his cheap watch looked beside the ones her new friends wore. He often felt like he was stepping into someone else's life, someone richer, smoother, less earnest.
But Eleanor had smiled at him as though she found all that awkwardness charming rather than out of place.
"I like that you actually work," she'd said once over dinner, sipping her wine with an indulgent little tilt of her head. "Most men in this city only pretend to."
He'd taken it as a compliment… then.
Now, older, steadier, he could hear the faint disdain curled inside it. But at twenty-nine, that had sailed right past him. He had been too dazzled by her attention, too eager to be enough for someone like her.
Their early days were filled with the kind of glamour that thrilled him — weekend markets where she insisted on buying "artisan everything," rooftop bars where the cocktails cost more than his weekly groceries, spontaneous dinners after she swept into his office, coat still on, announcing she was "starving and bored."
She never asked if he was free.
She simply expected him to be.
And Richard, wanting to be worthy of her, always made himself available.
"Come on," she'd urge, looping her arm through his. "Life's happening out there, not behind a desk."
He'd laugh, tuck the files away, and follow her out into the world she curated with such bright, feverish energy.
He mistook that for affection.
Now he saw it had been something closer to ownership — a gravitational pull where her wants quietly eclipsed his own.
She never asked about his world.
Not really. She liked hearing about his ambitions — the promotions he wanted, the plans for his own company someday — but the gritty parts bored her. The long hours. The stress. The responsibility.
One Friday, he'd told her he needed to cancel dinner because a colleague had left abruptly, leaving Richard to handle the fallout.
Eleanor's smile had tightened at the edges.
"Well… try not to make a habit of it," she said lightly.
He laughed it off, apologised, promised he'd make it up to her.
He didn't see the warning in her eyes.
He didn't see much in those days — except her.
Everyone liked Eleanor. She charmed easily, her laughter warm, her praise flattering without ever sounding false. But charm wasn't connection, and she rarely offered anything deeper.
Richard remembered inviting her to his parents' house for Sunday lunch. She arrived late, breezing in with a brilliant smile and a very expensive bottle of wine. She dazzled his mother, flattered his father, laughed at all the right moments.
But the moment the car doors closed afterward, she sighed dramatically.
"That was excruciatingly dull," she said, rubbing her temples. "Richard, darling, you didn't tell me your parents were… nice."
He'd bristled — just a little — but swallowed it. He told himself she was joking. That he was being sensitive. That love meant compromise.
He didn't notice how quickly she dismissed anything that wasn't about her.
There were smaller moments too — ones he hadn't thought about in years.
The weekend away she cancelled because she'd been invited to "something better." A gallery opening. People she wanted to impress.
He remembered standing in their small flat, bag half-packed, watching her fasten earrings while explaining, breezily:
"I'm sure you understand. These opportunities matter."
He'd nodded.
He always nodded.
Because he wanted her.
Because he feared losing her.
Because he believed love demanded flexibility — his, mostly.
It never occurred to him to wonder why she didn't show any in return.
Her affection came with conditions.
When she was pleased, she was luminous — curling against him on the sofa, fingers in his hair, telling him he was brilliant, exceptional, hers. But when he disagreed with her, even gently, she withdrew. Not dramatically — just enough for him to feel the chill.
He learned to avoid certain topics.
He learned to apologise first.
He learned to shrink himself, bit by bit.
He didn't realise how much space he'd surrendered until years later, when he could barely remember the man he'd been before her.
But there were good moments.
Real laughter. Real nights of closeness. Walks along the river, talking about futures that felt bright and boundless. Dinners with friends where he felt, for a breath or two, that they truly were building something together.
Those memories hadn't faded.
They had simply grown complicated.
Back in the present, older Richard saw the red flags clearly — bright as road flares. But the younger man he had been? He had loved her. Or at least the version of himself he thought he became when she looked at him with approval.
He followed that spark for years.
Long after it had stopped burning.
After his children had gone to bed, Richard sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, letting the truth soak through him with a heaviness that was strangely soothing. The past felt different tonight. Not distant or bitter, not something to resent or rewrite. Just… factual. A life lived. Choices made by a younger man who had been trying — truly trying — to build something lasting.
Maybe this was what healing looked like:
Not erasing the past.
Not punishing himself for it.
But understanding it with a kinder, steadier gaze.
He leaned back, exhaled, and closed his eyes for a moment.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would make breakfast with the kids. Real breakfast — pancakes, fruit, the works. He'd drive them somewhere for the day. Do something they would enjoy. Not out of guilt, not out of obligation, but because he wanted to.
Because he was here now. Properly here.
In a way he hadn't been in years.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward becoming the man his children already believed he could be.