Richard reached the front door just after seven, loosening his tie as he stepped inside. The house was quiet in that soft, domestic way he had once thought he'd never experience again. Not after the divorce, not after all the tension, the distance, the sharp edges that had lived in these walls for so long.
But now… it was different.
Warm.
Alive.
He shrugged off his coat, then froze.
A distinct smell drifted from the kitchen. Spicy. Rich. Comforting. Familiar, but unexpected.
Someone was cooking.
He walked in and blinked.
There stood Drew his headphones on, an apron tied crookedly, stirring a simmering pot on the stove with a seriousness that made Richard's chest tighten.
He turned. "Oh. Hey, Dad."
He pulled his headphones down to his neck.
Richard blinked again. "You're cooking?"
A faint blush touched Drew's cheeks, but he didn't look away. "Yeah."
"I… didn't know you could cook," Richard said, genuinely stunned.
Drew shrugged, stirring again. "I'm doing it for GCSE."
Richard leaned against the counter, amazed.
"When did this start?"
"A while ago," Drew said. "I told Mum once and she laughed. Said it was silly. That boys don't cook." He rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of old hurt in it. "I told her loads of the greatest chefs were men, and she said they had to work really hard, that I'd never need to do any of that because I'd inherit your company one day. That I'd never have to worry about a job because there'd always be one waiting for me."
A beat of silence.
The kind that made Richard's heart crack quietly.
Drew kept stirring. "I still loved cooking. So I just… did it anyway. It's not like she ever knew what I was doing at school. As long as no one called her about us being in trouble, she never asked. And we never told her."
Richard swallowed hard. "Drew."
His son looked up.
"I'm very proud of you," Richard said, voice warm and steady. "For following what you care about. For choosing something because you love it, not because anyone expects it. And whatever you decide to pursue… cooking, business, or something else, I'll always support you."
Drew's expression flickered, a small, surprised softness, before he gave a quick nod and returned to the pot, but Richard could see the glow beneath it.
After a moment, Richard went upstairs and stepped down the hall. He knocked on Chloe's door.
"Come in," she called.
He pushed the door open. She was at her desk, books spread out, laptop glowing. She looked up, smiling. "Hi, Dad."
"Hi, love." He stepped inside.
"How are you?"
"I'm good, thanks..."
"Can I ask you something?"
She raised an eyebrow but nodded.
"What is it you love to do? What are you choosing to study at university?"
Her smile brightened, almost shyly. "I was interested in law… but also politics." She sat up straighter. "So I'm going for political science."
Richard blinked. He was impressed, proud, startled all at once. "Political science."
She nodded. "Yeah. I want to understand things. Systems. How decisions affect people. How things change. I like debating. I like… the world and what happens because something else happened. If that makes sense."
"It does," he said quietly. "And I'm so proud of you."
She looked at him with something soft and knowing. "I knew you would be."
That surprised him. "You did?"
"Of course." She smiled. "You were always different from Mum. Even when you were busy, even when you weren't around as much as we wanted… you always spoke to us with love. With warmth. You never got angry at us. Never made us feel like we were… bothering you."
Richard felt something shift; a small, painful, grateful tightening in his throat.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "That I never knew. That I didn't ask. That I was too busy."
"It's alright," she said gently. "You're here now, you're asking now."
He breathed out slowly, deeply, feeling the truth of that settle in him like a weight, but a good one.
When he returned downstairs, he paused in the hallway.
His mind drifted, not to spreadsheets, or meetings, or contracts, but to memories of the life he used to live. Business dinners that stretched until midnight. Galas dripping in champagne and diamonds. Soirées where everyone smiled too widely and said nothing real. Trips spent entertaining, persuading, performing.
Twenty years ago, he'd wanted that world; the glitter, the power, the invitations, the illusion of success.
But now?
Now he saw the truth clearly.
None of those nights had ever made him feel the way his home felt at this moment. None of those deals, or dinners had ever given him what Drew's hopeful voice, or Chloe's quiet confidence could.
The beauty was here.
In the small things.
The honest things.
The things that didn't sparkle but mattered.
"Dad! Chlo!" Drew's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
Richard smiled; a real smile, the kind that lifted him from the inside and headed into the kitchen.
The table was set. Chloe ran down and sat. She immediately started teasing Drew about wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Cook," which he insisted he found, ironically, in the kitchen drawer.
They bickered gently. Laughed. Rolled eyes. Passed plates.
Richard sat and watched them; really watched, as they tasted the chicken tikka masala. He and Chloe exaggerated their praise just to make Drew blush harder. The children nudged each other with the ease of siblings who were finally allowed to just be, without fear.
He ate slowly, savouring the spice, the warmth, the life filling his kitchen.
And he realised, with absolute certainty, that he had smiled more in these ten minutes than he had during an entire year of client dinners.
He'd missed so much.
But he had this.
His children.
Their futures.
Their laughter.
Their lives intertwining with his again.
This was the real world.
The one he never wanted to lose again.