Chapter Eight
The house was settling into its evening rhythm by the time William got home — that soft end-of-day hush that meant the younger children were nearly ready for bed.
He hung his jacket on the hook and climbed the stairs.
The landing was warm with the smell of bubble bath — Jake and Ollie’s bath, no doubt — and the faint trace of the lavender soap Sophie preferred.
From the main bathroom came Jake’s giggles and the splash of water. Ethan stood in the doorway, arms folded, supervising with the patience of someone who had long ago appointed himself deputy parent.
“Jake,” Ethan said as William reached the top of the stairs, “that is the third time you’ve washed your feet. They’re clean. You’re just playing with the bubbles now.”
Jake grinned up at him, his pyjama bottoms already damp around the ankles, clearly enjoying the rebellion.
Across the landing, Sophie stood in the smaller bathroom, brushing her hair in slow, careful strokes.
Mia hovered in her doorway nearby, already in her own pyjamas, reading but listening — always listening.
Ollie shot past William in a blur, wearing pyjamas and one slipper, heading for his attic room as if bedtime were a competitive sport.
William stepped aside to let him pass, then paused on the landing, taking in the familiar chaos. “Evening, team.”
Jake spotted him instantly. Ethan shifted out of the doorway, and Jake scrambled across the landing, launching himself into William’s arms. William caught him easily, lifting him into a tight hug that smelled of bubble bath and toothpaste.
Sophie emerged from the smaller bathroom and leaned into his side, still holding her hairbrush.
Mia stepped forward too, offering a quiet, warm hug before retreating back toward her doorway.
Ollie skidded to a stop long enough to bump his shoulder against William’s arm in a half-hug that lasted all of two seconds.
Ethan lingered for a moment, relief softening his face.
William reached out and pulled him into a brief, firm hug, and Ethan let himself be held.
They finished the last few minutes of the routine together — Jake insisting on showing him the dinosaur on his pyjama top, Sophie asking if he’d be home tomorrow, and Ollie bouncing on his bed with far too much energy for the hour.
Ethan went through his own nightly ritual, checking the window latch in Jake’s room before anyone asked.
When the younger three were finally tucked in, William stood for a moment in the doorway, watching their breathing settle.
They said their evening prayers together. Then he went downstairs.
His mother was in the kitchen, rinsing mugs. His father sat at the table with a cup of tea, the newspaper folded but unread. They both looked up as William entered.
“You’re back,” his mother said softly. “Everything all right next door?”
“Fine,” William said. “Just a broken doorknob. The internal spindle had sheared.”
His father cleared his throat — that quiet, deliberate sound that meant a conversation was coming.
“Will… sit down a moment.”
William hesitated, then sat.
His mother poured him tea without asking. She hovered for a second, steadying herself, then took the chair opposite him.
Sam folded his hands. “We wanted to talk to you about Sunday.”
William stared at the steam rising from his mug. “Dad…”
“You haven’t been since you moved here,” his mother said tenderly. “And that was fine — you’d just moved, everything was chaos.”
“And this week,” Sam added, “you’re off shift.”
William rubbed a hand over his face. “I know.”
His mother reached across the table, her hand warm over his. “Love… the children need the rhythm. They need the steadiness.”
He didn’t look up.
“And you do too,” she added softly.
A quiet settled — not heavy, just honest.
Sam leaned forward. “Will… we know living with the loss of Rosie and Eliza hasn’t been easy, and that you haven’t walked away from your faith. We know you still pray, even if it’s only a breath at a time.”
William’s throat tightened.
His mother’s voice softened. “I know church has been difficult since the accident. Church isn’t about pretending you’re fine. It’s about not having to be.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “Just come. Sit with us. Let the children see you there. Let them feel the steadiness of it.”
Sam nodded. “Let them see that faith holds, even when life hurts.”
Another silence — gentler this time.
William opened his eyes. “All right,” he said quietly. “We’ll go.”
His mother’s relief was warm, not triumphant.
Sam squeezed his shoulder. When they left the room, William stayed where he was, staring at the mug in front of him.
He wasn’t sure if he felt comforted or exposed.
Maybe both. But for the first time since the accident, the thought of Sunday didn’t feel like a cliff edge.
Just a step. A small one — but a step all the same.