Andrew sat on a wooden kitchen stool, watching specks of dust pirouette in the golden shaft of the setting sun. In flat 48, on Peace Road, everything seemed too cleanunnaturally so.
Three months had passed since Helen had left. Shed taken the suitcases, the spider plant, and, above all, ten-year-old Thomas and six-year-old Abigail. At first, Andrew had thought it was liberationno more endless cartoons, no stepping on Lego bricks, and he could devour baked beans straight from the tin.
A week later, his freedom had curdled into a void. Only then did he realise how household skills had shriveled in his years of marriage. So many things, he didn’t know anymore.
But nothing daunted him like Fridays waiting.
Dad, were here! Abigail burst through the front door in a fizz of outdoor air and strawberry shampoo.
Andrew gave her an awkward hug. Thomas followed silently, headphones in place, eyes flicking up for a moment to size up his father.
Hello, you lot. Come in. I I got everything ready for you.
A plan had taken rootif he became the perfect host, they might want to stay forever. Hed splashed out on the priciest non-stick frying pan and printed a recipe from the internet.
Whats for breakfast? Thomas asked the next morning, ambling into the kitchen.
Pancakes! Andrew replied with forced cheer, battling sticky lumps in the batter. With raspberry jam, like you love.
Like mums? Abigails eyes shone as she clambered onto a chair.
Andrew hesitated. Even better than mums. Just you wait.
Half an hour later, the kitchen resembled a war zoneflour everywhere: in Andrews eyebrows, on the floor, and even dangling from the lampshade. The first pancake was a shredded, greyish blob. The second burnt. The third was just odd.
Andrew could feel the frustration, a knot twisting his stomach. He loathed that new pan, the cooker, and his own ineptitude. He wanted to shout, Why is this so bloody hard?! But then he saw two little faces waiting.
Almost ready, he croaked, mopping sweat from his brow.
Eventually, a stack of golden pancakes appeared on the table. A bit misshapen, some edges a tad blackened, but they smelled real. He set down a bowl of jam and braced himself.
Abigail took a bite, eyes squeezed shut. Yummy, Daddy. Really yummy.
Thomas nodded, never taking off his headphones, yet somehow three pancakes vanished swiftly. Andrew breathed out, warmth blooming in his chest. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though hed won. As though the distance between them was laced together with pancake batter.
Sunday evenings were always hardestthe handing-over hours, when joy melted to a gentle, aching sadness.
They gathered in the lounge. Andrew had bought the newest console, the very one Thomas had been dreaming of for months.
So, Tom, hows the level? Did you beat the boss? Andrew perched beside his son.
Yeah, the boy replied, barely glancing up. Thanks, Dad. Its cool.
Abi, fancy a story? Andrew reached for a colourful book.
Dad, whens Mummy coming? Abigail didnt look at the book; her eyes lingered on her trainers by the door.
In an hour, sweetheart. Dont you like it here? Weve got pancakes, the console, and ice cream in the freezer! We could go to the zoo tomorrow, if you stay an extra day
Thomas unexpectedly set the controller aside. The room became so quiet Andrew could hear his own hopes rattling.
Dad, its really tasty here. And the consoles great. And, wellyou do try. We see.
Andrew smiled, but a ripple of unease gripped him.
Well, thats brilliant! Means youre happy here?
Abigail pressed her cheek to his stubbly jaw. Its tasty here, Dad. But at Mumsits home.
Those words struck harder than any notice of divorce. Andrew took in the sparkling kitchen, the pricey gadgets, the pristine surfaces. Everything perfect. And yet, lifeless.
What do you mean, home, Pumpkin? his voice trembled. This is your home, too, isnt it? Your rooms, your toys
Thomas looked up, the childlike gaze replaced by sober truth. Dad, home is when you know whose socks are whose. Its where my old drawings hang on the fridgethe ones you never used to notice. Remember that certificate I brought home from robotics club three years ago?
Andrews mouth openedOf coursebut he couldnt finish. He didnt remember. Hed been on business trips, or late at work, or just tired.
Mum remembers my allergy to washing powder, Thomas continued. Yesterday you asked what year Im in at school. Youre like a guest who really wants us to like you. You learned pancakes in a day, but you havent learned us in ten years.
Andrew covered his face. It was truehed poured foundations for a family, earned pounds, bought holidays, but had never really been there. Hed become an ATM, a shadow wandering through corridors at night.
He had lost not to Helen, but to the man hed become. Hed thought family was a given. But family, he saw now, needed daily, mindful work.
Thenthe doorbell.
Helen, come for the children.
Moving like an old man, he helped Abigail adjust her coat and handed Thomas his rucksack.
Thanks for the pancakes, Dad, Abigail kissed his nose.
Bye, Dad, Thomas squeezed Andys shoulder for a moment. The consoles really cool.
Helen watched him with gentle sympathy from the doorway. Seeing the flour on his t-shirt, the sorrow in his eyes.
Are you alright, Andrew? she asked quietly.
He nodded, swallowing a lump. Listen, Helen Abi said heres not home. Shes right.
Helen waited, letting him speak.
I Id like to come over. If youre alright with it. Not just to whisk them off for weekends in this shiny flat. I want to help Thomas with his project. Really help. And Abis got her concert on Thursday at school Id like to go. May I?
She offered a faint smile. Youd be welcome, Andrew.
The door closed. Alone again. But this time, he didnt drift to the sofa.
He headed to the fridgestark white and empty. He rummaged through his folder by the door, finding a crumpled, faded drawing of Thomassthe one he had stuck there years ago and forgotten. The picture showed a wobbly car, and three stick figures. Andrew fetched a magnet and stuck the sheet right at the centre.
He found Thomass number in his mobile and messaged, Tom, I checked your robotics club schedule. Im free Wednesday. How about I pick you up and we visit that workshop you mentioned? No pancakes, no consoles. Just us talking.
The reply pinged back a minute later: Ok, Dad. Looking forward.
Andrew looked at his hands, at his reflection. He finally understood: you cant build a home in a weekend. But today, hed laid the first true brick.
He moved into the kitchen and began washing up. Not because he ought tobut because, in his real home now taking shape, yesterdays mess didnt belong. And he finally realised: to make his children want to stay, he didnt need to fry like mum. He just needed to be Dad. Every day. No recipe required.
