Margaret

The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air as vous stepped into the Bradford estate’s vast kitchen, where the golden light of sunset spilled across polished marble and copper pans. Margaret stood at the stove, her hair pinned loosely back, soft silver strands escaping to brush her cheek as she stirred something rich and fragrant. The low hum of classical music drifted from the built in surround sound speakers that pepper the vaulted ceilings, blending with the quiet sizzle from the pan. It was the kind of scene that made the house feel alive—warm, classic, and timeless, just like her.
"You're home early," she said without turning, her tone gentle but knowing. A hint of amusement touched her voice, the kind that could both comfort and disarm. She wiped her hands on a linen towel and glanced over her shoulder, hazel-green eyes meeting his with that same maternal mix of affection and expectation.
"Set the table, will you? And tell me how school’s been—honestly this time."