Chapter 4 - The Kitchen Table
The front door clicked shut. Ten seconds later, the heavy thrum of the Mercedes engine faded down the driveway.
Ethan stood in the center of the quiet study for a long time. The house felt different now. The echoes didn't sound like a museum anymore; they sounded like a space waiting to be filled.
He walked out of the study, crossed the marble foyer, and pushed open the kitchen door.
Clara was standing by the sink, washing the remaining cake plates by hand. She hadn't packed a bag. She hadn't fled. She was simply doing what she always did—cleaning up the mess left behind by others.
Avery and Sophie were sitting at the island again, coloring with green and purple crayons on scraps of printer paper.
When Ethan walked in, the girls looked up, their eyes wide and cautious. In their young lives, men leaving rooms and doors slamming usually meant adults were angry, and angry adults meant changes were coming.
Ethan stopped three feet from the island.
He looked down at his shoes. They were expensive, custom-made Italian leather loafers—shoes that had walked through boardrooms in Manhattan, London, and Tokyo. Suddenly, they felt entirely wrong for this room.
He pulled out a stool and sat down. It was too short for him; his knees bumped against the underside of the counter, awkward and ungainly.
Avery shrank back half an inch.
“Daddy?” Sophie whispered. “Are you going to Chicago today?”
Ethan swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He reached out and gently picked up the purple crayon Avery had dropped.
“No, bug,” Ethan said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m not going to Chicago. I’m not going anywhere.”
Clara turned off the water. She wiped her hands on a cloth, her blue eyes steady as she watched him. She didn't smile, and she didn't look triumphant. She just waited.
“Clara,” Ethan said, turning his head to look up at her.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“I owe you an apology.”
Clara shook her head slightly. “You don’t owe me anything, sir. I’m just here to do a job.”
“No,” Ethan said, standing up again so he could look her in the eye across the white quartz counter. “You were doing my job. You were being their father while I was busy pretending that buying things could replace being here.”
He looked down at the two little girls who bore his late wife’s eyes.
“From now on,” Ethan said, his voice hardening into a vow, “things change. Starting with breakfast. No more nutritionists dictating what my daughters eat on their birthdays. No more consultants telling us how to live in our own home.”
Sophie tilted her head, her hazel eyes searching his face. “Does that mean Clara gets to stay?”
“Clara stays,” Ethan said firmly. “As long as she’s willing to put up with us.”
Avery let out a small, breathless giggle and slid her drawing across the counter toward him. It was a picture of a house with a very crooked roof, a massive yellow sun, and three stick figures standing by a pool.
May you like
One of the stick figures was much taller than the others, with a purple tie and giant blue shoes.
Ethan stared at the crayon drawing. He picked it up with fingers that weren't entirely steady, folded it carefully, and placed it inside the breast pocket of his shirt—right over his heart.
