It started that summer

Bruce Wayne Can't Cook

A/N: My bad guys, I didn't mean to publish this yesterday. I've been writing a chapter ahead and accidentally pressed publish yesterday when it was meant for today 😅 but it's here now!! Shout out to Burntoutdasiy & ErikaSchrule for being my avid commenters!  As much joy as you guys get reading this, I get reading your comments. If you like this story please vote it helps the book get discovered so more people like you can enjoy it! Also, thanks AI for the image in this chapter and the last ✨ One last note, Do you think the summary for the book is good or should I change it?  And now, happy reading: 

"Alfred, have you seen my phone?" I asked, my frustration growing as I searched through the drawers for what felt like the hundredth time. Alfred appeared in the doorway, his gaze steady and a faint smile playing at his lips.

"No, sir, I have not. Perhaps it vanished alongside your ability to communicate with your children," he said, setting down the tea kettle with a practiced ease. His smile was both knowing and amused.

"Thanks for that," I muttered, feeling the weight of my failures pressing down on me. "I'm trying, Alfred. It feels like they're all ignoring me now." I sighed heavily. "All I know is that they've decided to stay out of the house for a few days." My gaze drifted toward Damian's door. "He didn't come home last night."

"I'm certain he's fine. The question now is, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," I admitted, "They're all blowing me off. I don't even know where to start."

Alfred's gaze remained steady, and I could tell he wasn't going to let me off the hook easily. "Sir," he began, "you can't control everything. Sometimes the best you can do is acknowledge your limitations and take the first step towards mending things."

I leaned against the counter, feeling the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights catching up with me. "I thought if I just showed up, they'd come around. I don't know how to get through to them."

Alfred's eyes softened with understanding. "Communication is a two-way street, Master Wayne. It's not just about speaking, it's about listening as well. Have you considered reaching out to them in a different way? Perhaps through something more personal?"

I frowned, thinking about the ways I'd tried to connect with them over the past week. "I've tried to talk to them, but they always seem to be on guard. It's like no matter what I do, I can't break through their defenses."

"Then you'll have to be patient," Alfred said. "The important thing is to keep reaching out, showing them that you're there for them, no matter how long it takes."

I nodded, "Thanks, Alfred. I guess I have a lot of work to do." I decided to take Alfred's advice to heart. If communication wasn't just about talking, then maybe it was time to do something different—something more personal. I had an idea: I would cook a meal and invite the kids over. It wasn't a grand gesture, but it was something that showed I was trying. They all enjoyed it when we were together.

Alfred was skeptical but supportive. "I'm sure you'll do fine, sir," he said, though I could tell he was bracing himself for potential culinary chaos. "But remember, cooking is an art. It might be helpful to have a little guidance."

"I've got this," I insisted. "Can you call the kids?" He nodded and with that I headed to the kitchen, determined to show that I could handle this.

*20 minutes later*
I was lost in a haze of smoke and frustration, my attempts at cooking devolving into a chaotic mess. The roast was charred beyond recognition, the pasta sauce had turned into an unappetizing sludge, and the salad was limp and turning a different color. I tried to fix the unfixable "Why can't I get this right? It's just a meal," I mumbled, running a hand through my hair, which was now a mess and streaked with flour. "The chicken!"