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I suppose that was my cue to make myself useful, which I did. I made tea. I fed my children and laughed in appropriate places at the crazy conversations around my kitchen table. And I smiled.

Because I was, actually, fine. I was okay. Perhaps it was finally those antidepressants working. Maybe it was because my ex-wife had signed the new custody agreement. One I fully agreed with. The children lived here. Veronica could see them whenever she wanted and however she wanted, by prior agreement. But their schooling was here, and their home?

I was standing in it, right now.

I was right where I was supposed to be, in a house that was no longer quiet. Where the floorboards creaked just fine. Where noise was good and silence was non-existent, and where there was a phone ringing somewhere in the background and the front door being kicked open by Jean, carrying a bag of no doubt baked goods.

“Good morning, all my little darlings!” she sang out, then stopped dead in her tracks. “And hello to you too, young man! Delightful. God, aren’t you just something. Gray, is it? I’m Jean. Here, have a croissant. I bought those almondy ones you like, Stewart. And Constance, I have those pens you wanted in my bag. Found them in the artshop on Edgware Road, just like I said. I’ll take you one afternoon, and you can show me what else we need.”

“Oooh!” my daughter squealed, already having forgotten that we had a bona fide star in the room. Less impressive than pens, apparently.

I shook my head, then leant over and kissed the man next to me. Stewart, my children all around me and a bunch of randoms who strangely made me smile.

Family. What a strange thing that was, but this one was mine, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

30. Stewart

One Year Later

“You’re not my dad,” Constance spat out, staring at me in defiance. “And you can’t make those kinds of decisions.”

She sounded far too grown up, but she was absolutely right. She was almost seventeen and had to take responsibility for her actions.

“I’m not,” I agreed sternly. “I’m also not Brandon, which you keep reminding me, and I am not your mum. But I am your father’s partner, and I do care for you greatly.”

“Funny way of showing it.” She huffed, rolling her eyes.

“You need to hoover. And bring up your laundry. Simple rules, Constance.”

“And you need to stop nagging!” She turned around, and I quite expected her to slam the door in my face. She did, then came right back, flinging the door open with another crash. We’d have to get the walls repainted at this rate, and I’d only just finished the hallway.

Painting. I was apparently born to be a decorator, despite being totally useless at doing the edging properly.

It wasn’t that bad. You barely noticed the spillage in the hallway. Anyway.

The joys of owning property. Not that I owned anything, but I fluttered from living next door to mostly living here these days. Some of my clothes were upstairs in the main bedroom, some were in the basement next door.

Just the way I liked it.

“Anyway, Stew, you need to get over yourself.”

Very Constance. I should probably tell her off, but then this was the way she and I functioned. With stern words and an awful lot of respect. It went both ways, and where I had struggled with Reuben, he now seemed like he’d been the easiest teen alive compared to the young woman in front of me, who was still a child yet in so many ways more mature than me. Hard truths. Also ones that made me smile.

“I know,” I admitted.

“Mum is fuming and is insisting on this agency travel nanny. Phinney will go crazy if he has to go on a plane with a stranger. You know this.”

“I do.”

“Dad can’t travel to the States. It’s one week. One week, Stewart, and we have to spend it with Mum, and I need to not have all this stress.”

Tell me about it. The custody agreement between Dylan and Veronica was rock solid, I had to believe that, but this was the first trip for the kids to spend a week with their mum in New Orleans. I wasn’t a fan of the idea. Nor was I in any kind of agreement with the mere thought of chaperoning the kids across the Atlantic…despite everyone’s insistence that it was the ideal solution.

They couldn’t travel on their own. Dylan had a withdrawn visa. He couldn’t even apply for a tourist one without risking getting detained at the border. Not that I understood most of it, but the risks were too great. Even bigger were the irrational risks that currently had Dylan fretting.

It had been a year. A whole year, and I had no idea where the time had gone, because I still needed to find a job.

I had more of a job than most people. I took care of the school runs and did after-school activities and cooked and cleaned…and quietly managed two full households. Dylan kept calling me the office cleaner, but yeah.