I arrive home just before five o'clock. As I push open the heavy oak front door, the first things I see are several high-end boutique bags perched on the hallway dresser. The usual sterile silence of the manor is gone, replaced by a chaotic symphony of chatting and laughter drifting from the kitchen.
As I walk down the hallway, the scent of slow-simmered tomato sauce and baking chocolate cake hits me – a sensory overload that feels more like "home" than this house has felt in a long time. I push open the kitchen door to find a literal warzone.
Freya has evidently been teaching the girls to make fresh pasta, but the lesson has clearly devolved into a flour-based riot. As I step over the threshold, I'm suddenly caught square in the face by several stray strands of raw tagliatelle and a fin
