ZAYN: FAMILY HOUSE

My presence is unmistakably announced the moment I approach the compound in my car, thanks to the roaring engine that drowns out the ambient sounds around me. It's as if the car has a personality of its own; people positioned minutes away can hear the thunderous growl and know I'm on my way long before I arrive. The estate is sprawling, with the drive from the gate to the house taking a good five minutes by regular vehicle and about twenty if you're walking. But in my supersonic car, I can bridge that gap in just three minutes.

As I draw closer to the gate, the scene unfolds before me: a cluster of security guards is stationed around the compound, and I count at least five of them lingering by the entrance.

These guards have become very familiar with my collection of cars over the years, which means they won't bother checking my vehicle when I return home. Automation at its best, the gate recognizes my approach and swings open seamlessly, allowing me to glide up to the checkpoint. I always make it a point to stop and acknowledge the guards; many of them have been part of our family's circle well before I came into the world, and they've become a comforting presence in my life.

"Sup man?" they greet me in harmony, their camaraderie evident.

"Sup guys," I respond, reaching through the car window for a series of handshakes—a ritual that's become a highlight of my daily routine.

"Been a long time since we've seen you, man; hope you're good?" Loreto, one of the longest-serving members of the team, inquires with genuine warmth.

"I've been good, bro, just quite busy," I reply, appreciating the connection in our exchange.

"Right, I get that, bro; I'll see you around then." Loreto and I share a quick dap, and with the engine roaring back to life, I zoom off toward the main house. I can only imagine that by now, word of my arrival has reached my father. As I pull up, I catch a glimpse of the maids gathered near the entrance, flanked like soldiers ready for inspection. Despite my preference for simplicity, they never fail to roll out the red carpet, a battle I've long since chosen to concede.

I shut off the engine, leaving my keys in the ignition. One of the chauffeurs will be along shortly to tuck my car safely into the garage.

"Welcome, younger master," the maids chant in perfect unison as they slightly bow their heads, an age-old gesture of respect. I flash them a curt smile as I ascend the wide staircase leading up to the main living area.

At the top, a familiar face awaits—Michael, our eldest household worker and my father's right-hand man. To me, he's more than just a staff member; he's family. He nurtured me during my father's lengthy business trips, showering me with affection and care that I will always cherish.

"It's been long, son," he says, his weathered eyes lighting up as we embrace, his grasp firm and reassuring.

"I know, Father. I've missed you," I reply, savoring the warmth of his hug.

"And yet you stayed away for so long? You make me question your words," he chuckles, playfully ruffling my hair as if I were still a boy.

"I've truly missed you; time just hasn't been on my side," I admit, finally releasing him from our heartfelt embrace. I hadn't realized how much I needed this reconnection until this moment.

"Come on, your family's waiting for you," he says, gesturing for me to follow him. I anticipated a journey to the living room filled with laughter and chatter, but instead, Michael leads me toward the dining room. Inside, I observe a flurry of activity as the maids scurry around, preparing for an impending gathering. It's precisely this bustling environment that often makes my visits quite overwhelming.

Stepping into the dining room, my gaze fixes on Martin, my stepbrother, seated alone at the far end of a long table. The two of us never shared much in terms of dialogue, our relationship built more on the unspoken connection that arises from years of living under the same roof.

I stride over to him, extending my hand for a firm handshake. I appreciate the way we communicate without the need for words; a simple exchange of eye contact conveys everything we need to say.

Martin, who joined our household at fifteen, is five years my senior. He doesn't share the same upbringing as me; he was my mother's first child from her previous marriage to Jedro. After his father's tragic death in a gang-related incident, he moved in with us, and while we've grown comfortable in each other's presence, an invisible distance still lingers.

"Where's Zayn?" a sweet, familiar voice calls out from the direction of the kitchen. It's Chloe, my twin sister; her chirpy tone is like music to my ears.

"Zayn!" she bursts into the dining room, arms wide open. I barely have time to react before she envelops me in a tight hug, warmth radiating from her small frame.

"Oh, how I've missed you! You don't visit anymore; you barely call. Is that fair?" she asks, her voice brimming with emotion as she steps back to look me in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry for not being around much; I promise I won't let that happen again," I say, placing a comforting hand on her back.

"But why did you disappear? Are you okay? Why did you come back?" she probes, concern etched on her face.

"I'm completely okay; I just needed some time to clear my head. I came back just to see you. You're the reason I make the effort to come home," I assure her, knowing how much she means to me.

"I'm glad you're home; Mom and Dad will be here soon. They're just tied up with something," she explains, settling next to Martin. She gives him a peck on the cheek, and I can see that their bond remains strong, a reassuring sight that my sister has someone to lean on.

"And the prodigal son decides to return home!" Mary, our head maid and Michael's wife, announces joyfully as she enters the room, balancing a tray laden with dishes.

"Hello, Mother Mary," I reply, my gaze shifting as my parents follow closely behind her. The affectionate title "Mother Mary" has stuck since I started calling Michael "Father"; it feels fitting and right.