I was perched on a kitchen stool, watching dust motes swirl through the golden light of the setting sun. My flatnumber 12, Cecil Roadlooked spotless. Too spotless, if I’m honest.
Three months ago, Ellen packed her things, cleared out the fern, and, most importantly, took ten-year-old Thomas and six-year-old Harriet with her. At first, I thought it was freedom. No cartoons blaring, no stepping on bits of Lego, and I could eat sausages straight from the saucepan without a care.
But a week later, that freedom had soured into emptiness. I realised how much Id gotten out of touch with everyday practicalities during all those years of marriage. Id forgotten how much there is to know, and do, around the house.
But the worst partby farwas the anticipation of Fridays.
Dad, were here! Harriet bounded into the hallway, trailing in the scent of fresh air and childrens shampoo.
I hugged her awkwardly. Thomas followed, silent, headphones on, flicking a quick, appraising glance at me.
All right, team. Come in. I got ready for your arrival.
I tried to convince myself that if I became the perfect host, maybe theyd want to stay forever. Id gone and bought the fanciest non-stick frying pan and printed off a recipe from the internet.
Whats for breakfast? Thomas yawned on Saturday morning, shuffling into the kitchen.
Pancakes! I replied far too enthusiastically, battling lumps in the batter. With raspberry jam, just how you like.
Like Mum does them? Harriet asked hopefully, clambering onto a chair.
I froze.
Even better than Mums. Just wait and see.
Half an hour later, the kitchen looked like a war zone. I had flour on my eyebrows, on the floor, inexplicably even on the lampshade. The first pancake was an unidentifiable grey splodge. The second was burnt. The third looked rather odd.
I felt irritated. I wanted to curse the pan, the hob, and my own ineptitude. I wanted to shout, Why is this so hard? but I saw their expectant faces.
Nearly ready, I croaked, wiping sweat from my brow.
Eventually, I managed an uneven stack of golden pancakes. They werent perfect circles; some edges were burnt, but they smelled delicious. I placed a bowl of jam on the table and held my breath for the verdict.
Harriet took a bite, squeezed her eyes shut. Yum, Dad. Really nice.
Thomas nodded, headphones still on, but demolished three without a word. Relief flooded my chest, warming me. It felt as if Id bridged that invisible gap between us with pancake batter.
Sunday evenings always felt the longesttransition time, when the joy of reunion ebbed into quiet sadness of parting.
We sat together in the lounge. I had bought a new games console, top of the range, the very one Thomas had been dreaming of for half a year.
Hows the level, Tom? Beaten the boss yet? I tried to sound casual, settling beside him.
Yep, he replied, not glancing up. Thanks, Dad. Its brilliant.
Harry, would you like a story before Mum comes? I reached for her colourful book.
Dad, whens Mum getting here? She wasnt looking at the book. She stared at her trainers, lined up by the door.
In an hour, sweetheart. Youre not bored here, are you? Weve got the console, pancakes, ice cream in the freezer. If you stay tomorrow, we could go to the zoo…
Thomas suddenly set his controller down. Silence filled the room.
Dad, your pancakes are great. The consoles ace. And you really try. We know.
I smiled, but my heart clenched with unease.
So, you do like it here?
Harriet came over and cuddled against my rough cheek.
Its tasty here, Dad. But at Mums, its home.
Her words struck harder than the decree absolute. I glanced aroundexpensive sofa, gleaming tech, fresh paintwork. It was all so perfect. And yet, it was lifeless.
What do you mean, Harry? Isnt this your home? Your rooms, your toys
Thomas lifted his eyes. Gone was the childlike hope, replaced by something older, more honest.
Dad, home is where you know whose socks are whose. Homes when Mum sticks my old pictures on the fridgethe ones you never noticed. Remember when I got the school prize for robotics, three years back?
I opened my mouth to say of course, but stayed silent. Three years ago, I was always away on business. Or in meetings. Or just exhausted.
Mum remembers my allergy to washing powder, Thomas pressed on. Yesterday, you asked what year I was in. Youre just like a guest who really wants us to like him. You learned pancakes in a day, but you havent learned us in ten years.
I covered my face with my hands. He was right. For years, Id been laying foundations, providing, buying holidays, but Id never actually been present. Id been a functionan ATM, a shadow crossing the hall late at night.
I hadnt lost out to Ellen. Id lost out to myselfto the man I was before the split. I thought family came as standard, but in truth, its labour. Constant care and effort.
The doorbell rang. Ellen arrived for the children.
I stood up, feeling ancient. I helped Harriet with her coat, passed Thomas his backpack.
Thanks for the pancakes, Dad, Harriet kissed me on the nose.
Bye, Dad, Thomas gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. And yeahthe consoles amazing.
Ellen stood in the doorway, quietly watching, taking in the flour on my t-shirt and the sadness in my eyes.
George, are you okay? she asked softly.
Yes, I nodded, swallowing hard. Listen, Ellen Harry said its not home with me. Shes right.
Ellen gave me time to finish.
I want to come by more. Not just to pick them up for weekends as if Im running a museum. I want to help Thomas with his robotics projectproperly. And Harriets got her performance at nursery on Thursday Ill be there. If thats all right?
She smiled faintly. Wed like that, George.
The door closed. I was alone again. This time, I didnt go and sit in front of the telly.
Instead, I went to the fridge. The brilliant white surface was blank.
I fished out an old, crumpled drawing of Thomassa car with three stick peoplethat Id stuffed into a folder and forgotten. I fixed it on the fridge with a magnet.
Then I found Thomass contact in my phone.
Tom, Ive checked your robotics club schedule. Im free on Wednesday. How about I pick you up and we visit that workshop you mentioned? No pancakes, no consolesjust a proper chat.
He replied a minute later: Sounds good, Dad. See you then.
I looked at my hands, at my reflection in the glass. I finally realised: you cant build a home in a weekend. But today, Id set the first real brick in place.
I started washing up. Not because I ought to, but because in my real homethe one Im only just buildingthere shouldnt be any mess carried over from the past.
Now I know: if I want my kids to want to stay, I dont need to fry pancakes like their mum. I just need to be their dad. Every day. No recipe required.
