The drive to Richmond passed more quickly than Richard expected. The road unfurled in long, steady stretches, lined with trees whose branches tangled against the muted sky. It was one of those subdued English afternoons that felt suspended, neither dark nor bright, as though time itself had slowed its pace.
He turned onto Robert's street and exhaled when the familiar house came into view. It looked softer somehow, lived-in and warm even from the outside, with its deep green door and the small collection of children's boots arranged neatly by the step.
He parked along the curb and rested both hands on the steering wheel for a moment.
He told himself he was here only to check on the children. To be responsible. To be a friend. To show appreciation for everything Helene had taken on.
But the truth moved beneath all of that, quiet and undeniable.
He wanted to see her.
That gentle pull he had felt around her at the wedding had not faded with distance. If anything, it had grown clearer.
He stepped out of the car and walked up the path. A faint scent of woodsmoke drifted from a neighbouring garden. Before he could knock, he heard laughter from inside. Light, warm, unmistakably Helene's.
Something in him lifted just hearing it.
He knocked and waited.
The door opened after a few moments, and there she stood.
Helene held a tea towel in one hand, her dark hair loosely clipped back with soft strands falling around her cheeks. She wore a deep purple jumper and dark jeans, simple and unpretentious, yet Richard felt something in his chest settle the moment he saw her.
"Richard," she said, her expression brightening in a way that warmed him immediately. "What a surprise. Is everything alright? Are your children alright?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "They are fine. I just wanted to check on things here. Make sure you were all alright too."
Her smile softened. "That is kind of you. Please come in."
He stepped inside. The familiar scent of the house wrapped around him, a mix of laundry powder, children's crayons and the sweet aroma of whatever she had been baking.
Luke appeared from the living room, tugging at the sleeve of a superhero costume. "Richard," he said, running up to him. "Look."
Richard crouched slightly. "Very impressive," he said, studying the makeshift cape and uneven eye mask. "Are you saving the world today?"
Luke nodded with great seriousness. "Yes. But Nana said I must finish my lunch first or I won't have enough energy to fly."
"That sounds sensible," Richard agreed.
Becca peeked shyly from behind a chair in her princess dress. She gave him a little smile before hurrying back into the living room where crayons were scattered across the rug.
Michael's soft babbling drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic patter of a rattle shaking in his bouncing chair.
"You came at a good time," Helene said, gesturing him in. "Lunch is chaos and I could use an extra pair of hands if you don't mind being recruited."
"I don't mind at all," he said. "I'm happy to help."
She led him into the kitchen. He went straight to Michael, who squealed and clapped his tiny hands when he saw him, as though summoning him.
Richard smiled. "Hello, Michael."
"He likes you," Helene said with a gentle laugh. "He doesn't greet me that enthusiastically."
"That's not true." Richard lifted Michael from the chair. "He lights up just at the sound of your voice. Things look brighter every time you walk into a room."
Helene flushed and her smile deepened. "Maybe," she said softly.
There was a pause, warm and quiet. A stillness that lingered as though both of them were considering something neither felt ready to name.
She turned back to the counter, perhaps to steady herself. "Would you like a cup of tea? I was just making some."
"I would," he said. "Thank you."
He sat at the table with Michael on his knee. The baby gurgled and kicked happily while Richard made silly faces, earning delighted squeals.
Helene laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. It washed through him like sunlight slipping into a dim room.
She set a mug of tea in front of him. "Milk and one sugar," she said. "If I remember correctly."
He blinked. "Yes."
He looked up to find her watching him, her eyes steady and warm. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if a gentle energy had drawn them closer without either of them moving.
She glanced away first, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me," she said, "how are Drew and Chloe? I have been thinking about them."
"They are processing," Richard said quietly. "We had a difficult morning."
Her expression softened with instinctive empathy. "I'm sorry. What happened?"
"We talked for a long time," he said. "They decided they weren't ready to see Eleanor yet. I called and told her."
"I think that was wise," Helene replied. "They've been through so much. They deserve time."
"Yes." His throat tightened as he looked down at the table. "They do."
She shifted closer and rested her hip lightly against the edge of the table. "And you," she asked gently. "How are you feeling?"
He opened his mouth but found that the answer lay deeper than he expected.
"I feel…" He hesitated. "I don't know what I feel."
She waited, patient and unhurried.
"I asked her why she never fought harder for the marriage," he said. "For the children. She said I worked too much. She said I made her feel insecure."
"And what did you say?" Helene asked.
"I told her the truth. That I didn't know how to bridge the space between us. That I should have confronted things sooner. That I'm sorry. But also that I'm finished with all of it."
Helene nodded. She didn't offer clichés or neat explanations. She simply listened.
"It feels strange," he said. "Finally saying everything out loud. I feel lighter. Not exactly happier, but lighter."
She placed her hand briefly on his forearm, a gentle, grounding touch. He felt it far more deeply than he expected.
"You're doing your best," she said softly. "And you're doing it with so much care for your children. That's what matters."
He looked at her hand, then at her face. Something warm and quiet moved through him, but her hand slipped away just as quickly, leaving behind the faint memory of warmth.
Helene called Becca and Luke in for lunch and handed Richard a fresh bottle for Michael.
The children ate while she coaxed them through crusts and carrot sticks. Richard watched the effortless kindness in everything she did.
After they finished, Becca tugged at Helene's sleeve. "I made something. Do you want to see it?"
"I would love to," Helene said, then looked at Richard with a small smile.
He rose. "May I see it as well?"
Becca nodded shyly.
In the living room, she held up her drawing: a wobbly house with four figures. Two small ones, one taller, one in a long dress.
"That's Daddy," she said proudly. "And that's Mummy. And those are us."
Richard felt something warm unfold in his chest. Something delicate.
Helene smiled. "It's lovely, Becca."
Becca nodded, then dropped to the floor to begin another drawing.
Richard glanced at Helene. Her cheeks were slightly pink. She looked at him and smiled, then turned to check on Luke, as though she needed the distraction.
They spent the next hour helping Luke build a lopsided cushion fortress while Michael lay on the rug attempting to roll over. Everything felt peaceful and domestic, a quiet rhythm that Richard hadn't experienced in years.
Eventually, Helene went upstairs to put Michael down for a nap. Richard watched her disappear up the stairs with the sleepy baby, humming softly. Something about that image tugged at him in a steady, familiar way. Not longing. Not romance. Something that felt like the beginning of home.
When she returned, her expression was softer.
"He fell asleep quickly," she said.
"You're very good with them," Richard said.
She shook her head lightly. "They make it easy."
"It's you," he said. "You have a way of making people feel at ease."
She looked at him for a long moment. Her expression was warm and quiet. "Thank you," she said gently.
Another soft stillness settled between them. Not heavy. Not awkward. Simply full.
Finally she said, "Would you like to stay for tea? It's nothing fancy. Just soup. And I made scones."
"I would like that," he said.
They moved around the kitchen in a natural rhythm, as though they had done it many times. Their hands brushed once as they both reached for a spoon. Neither pulled away quickly. Neither remarked on it. The awareness simply rested between them, quiet and unspoken.
Over tea and scones they talked about ordinary things. The weather. His work. The children. Small, gentle subjects that felt unexpectedly significant.
He found himself laughing softly. She smiled often, each time loosening something in him that had been tight for far too long.
When it grew late, he stood reluctantly. "I should go. Thank you for letting me spend the afternoon with you."
"You're welcome any time," she said.
He looked at her, truly looked, and saw something steady in her expression.
Not expectation. Not hesitation.
Just closeness.
Growing. Quiet. Certain.
He stepped outside into the cold air. He walked to his car and glanced back to see her still standing in the doorway. She gave him a small wave. He lifted his hand in return.
As he drove home, her image stayed with him. Her gentle smile. The warmth of her voice. The calm strength she carried wherever she went.
He didn't know what it meant. He told himself he didn't need to.
But it lingered with him all the same.