“I wasn’t afraid of it,” he said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Clara didn’t argue. She simply looked at Elliot, who was still grinning as if the kitchen had become the safest place in the world.
After a long silence, Nathaniel said, “Can you… show me?”
Clara blinked. “Sir?”
Nathaniel’s voice cracked around the edges. “Show me how you made him laugh.”
Clara felt something soften in her. Not triumph. Not smugness.
Hope.
She nodded slowly. “Okay. But you have to be willing to look a little ridiculous.”
Nathaniel stared at the yellow gloves like they were a scandal.
Then, with the seriousness of a man signing a contract, he held out his hand.
Clara slipped one glove off and offered it to him.
Nathaniel pulled it on. The bright yellow looked absurd against his dark suit, like sunshine that didn’t belong.
Elliot squealed.
Clara couldn’t help but laugh. “See? He likes it already.”
Nathaniel’s lips twitched. “What now?”
Clara handed him the wooden spoon. “Announce the cooking show.”
Nathaniel’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not doing that.”
Elliot made an impatient little sound, as if demanding entertainment.
Clara tilted her head. “Chef Elliot is waiting, sir.”
Nathaniel stared at his son. His posture eased, just a fraction.
Then he cleared his throat and said stiffly, “Welcome to… Chef Elliot’s cooking show.”
Elliot giggled.
Clara clapped quietly. “Good. Now add sunshine.”
Nathaniel scooped toward the window with the spoon. “Sunshine,” he muttered.
Elliot laughed again—light, easy, like the house didn’t have the right to silence him anymore.
Nathaniel’s eyes shimmered. warning lights behind them.
Clara stepped back just enough to give father and son space. She watched Nathaniel’s face change with each giggle—like he was remembering a version of himself he’d abandoned.
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