“Dad?”I call as I step into the house, dropping my keys onto the sideboard.
“In the kitchen!” he shouts back.
Panic hits before reason does, and I bolt for the kitchen, already imagining him collapsed on the floor. Instead, I freeze in the doorway.
He’sstanding.
One hand braced on the counter, the other buttering toast like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His stick leans against the counter beside him.
It feels like a sledgehammer to my chest.
“Dad, what—?”
“Morning, son. Toast?” He turns, smiling casually, as if my world hasn’t just tilted.
“I—uh—no thanks.” My voice sounds foreign, weak. I don’t dare move in case the moment breaks.
“Be a dear and pop the kettle on.”
“Yeah… sure.” I fumble for the kettle. “Where are the teabags?”
“Oh, I’m using decaf now. No sugar. And there’s oat milk in the fridge.”
I blink at him. “Whoareyou and what have you done with my father?”
He chuckles, pointing to the new box of decaf like a man who’s joined a cult.
I open the fridge and pull out a tub. “Vegan butter?”
“Yes. Tastes just the same and it’s better for me.”
I stare at the tub, at him, then back at the tub. My brain can’t compute.
By the time I follow him into the living room, he’s sitting comfortably in his chair, plate balanced on his lap. I bring the tea tray over — unsweetened, decaf, no biscuits — and I can’t help but ask, “Dad, what’s going on?”
“I just decided to take better care of myself,” he says matter-of-factly. “Trying a new diet for MS.”
“And where did you hear about this miracle diet?” I ask, already suspicious.
“My nurse recommended it.”
His tone’s off, but I let it go. Whoever convinced him to try vegan butter and decaf tea deserves a medal. Especially if it’s got him walking again.
The tea is revolting — like liquid cardboard — but I choke it down. Once I’ve recovered, I take a breath and bring up what I came for.
“So… I might’ve been nominated for an award. RIBA. They’re doing this ceremony thing and, well, I got a few tickets. Thought maybe you’d want to come.”
“Nothing about the RIBA awards isnotfancy, Henry,” he says, side-eyeing me over his cup.
“You know about them?”
“Of course I do, you moron. My son’s an architect — a bloody good one — and when he gets nominated, I do my research. I’m just wondering why it’s taken you a week to tell me in person.”
He fixes me with that look — the same one I got as a kid when I’d forgotten to do my homework.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I just—”
He laughs, cutting me off. “I’m pulling your leg. Congratulations, my boy. I’m proud of you. Your mother would’ve been too.”
