We did not talk about this.
Mason’s brow furrows. “Did you have a sleepover?”
I take a breath. “Um?—”
Before I can respond, his face brightens with sudden clarity. “Is Aiden your boyfriend now, Mommy?”
The word boyfriend lands in the room with a clang.
I crouch down so I’m level with Mason, buying myself a second to think. Aiden stays still behind me, deliberately giving me the space to handle this, and I appreciate him for it more than he probably knows.
“Would that be okay with you, sweetheart?” I ask carefully.
Mason considers this seriously, chewing on the dinosaur’s tail. “Yeah,” he says finally. “He’s really nice, and he lets me pick the music when we go to school.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
Then Mason tilts his head, thoughtful again. “But… what about Daddy?”
The question is gentle. Curious. There’s no accusation in it, just the honest need of a child trying to understand how his world fits together.
Aiden steps forward and kneels beside me, bringing himself fully into Mason’s line of sight. His voice is calm, steady, and measured in a way that tells me he’s thought about this more than once. “Your dad is your dad. Always. Nothing changes that. I’m… someone who cares about you and your mom. Is that okay?”
Mason studies his face for a long moment, then nods decisively. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Aiden’s neck in a spontaneous hug that makes my breath catch. “Okay.”
Aiden laughs softly and hugs him back, careful and warm, and the knot in my chest finally loosens all the way. Crisis averted, at least for now.
We migrate to the kitchen a few minutes later, all of us still moving a little awkwardly around each other, like we’re learning new choreography on the fly. Mason insists on helping make breakfast, dragging a stool over to the counter and announcing himself as the Official Egg Cracker. Aiden lets him take thejob seriously, supervising with exaggerated caution while I pour coffee and try not to smile at how easily this feels.
It shouldn’t feel this easy.
That thought lingers in the back of my mind even as Mason chatters happily, and Aiden steals glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking. When Mason laughs, and Aiden laughs with him, it’s hard not to want this moment to stretch a little longer.
Breakfast becomes something more than food without any of us meaning it to.
Mason narrates every step like he’s hosting a cooking show, explaining the importance of eggs and why pancakes are superior to waffles, “except when waffles have strawberries.” His thoughts on the matter have shifted since he dreamed about breakfast last night, apparently. Aiden listens like this is the most critical briefing he’s had all week, nodding thoughtfully and offering commentary that makes Mason giggle so hard he almost drops an egg.
I lean against the counter with my coffee and watch them, my chest tight in a way that isn’t entirely uncomfortable. There’s a rhythm to the three of us that feels natural, unforced. Aiden doesn’t take over, doesn’t correct Mason unless it’s about safety, doesn’t rush him along. He lets Mason feel competent, trusted. I recognize that instinct immediately. It’s the same one I rely on every day, the belief that kids rise to the level you let them reach.
“Careful,” Aiden says as Mason tips the bowl too far. “Slow hands.”
“I got it,” Mason insists, tongue sticking out in concentration.
He mostly does.
A little batter ends up on the counter, then on the floor, and then inexplicably on Mason’s elbow. Instead of getting flustered, Aiden hands him a towel and says, “Mess means you’re doing it right,” like it’s a rule he’s lived by for years. Mason beams at thatand wipes enthusiastically, smearing things more than cleaning them, but no one stops him.
I catch Aiden looking at me over Mason’s head, something warm and almost disbelieving in his eyes. I look away before it turns into something heavier, before I let myself imagine permanence where there is only possibility.
We sit down to eat, Mason swinging his legs under the chair, announcing that these are “the best pancakes in Ohio,” which makes Aiden snort, and me laugh. It’s ridiculous and sweet and so dangerously close to normal that I feel the need to catalogue it carefully, like I might need proof later that it happened.
After breakfast, Mason drags his dinosaur through the living room, making roaring noises while Aiden clears the dishes. I reach for a plate automatically, but he shakes his head. “Go sit. You already cleaned enough yesterday.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You keeping track now?”
“Occupational hazard,” he replies, glancing at me with a grin that makes my stomach flip in a way I do not appreciate. “If we don’t track who does chores, someone might slack off. So, yes, I keep track. Go. Enjoy the morning with Mason. I’ve got this.”
I retreat to the couch, reminding myself again that this is a fragile truce between want and caution. I cannot afford to slide into fantasy because the morning feels gentle. Mason’s needs are constant and real and nonnegotiable. Unfortunately, my heart is less disciplined.
