Our son.
His son.
He doesn’t know. He has no clue, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep it that way.
Every time I look at Cohen, I see pieces of Cole. His eyes, his stubborn little grin, the way he furrows his brows when he’s concentrating. I used to think it would fade. That the resemblance would soften. But it hasn’t. It’s only getting stronger.
With Cole being back, it feels like the walls I’ve built to protect my little boy, to protect myself, are cracking.
But how do you tell someone something like that? How do you look the person who shattered you in the eye and say, “By the way, you’re a father?” Especially when they’ve already lost so much.
I push those thoughts aside as I turn into my parents’ driveway, pulling up behind my dad’s old pickup. The familiar creak of the gravel under my tires brings a weird comfort. It’s the same sound I’ve heard since I was a kid. When all that mattered was running barefoot through this yard, chasing fireflies and not having a clue what heartbreak really meant.
Cohen’s probably inside with my mom, sticky with peanut butter or paint, or both. He’s always creating, always dreaming. Iwonder if that’s how I used to be. Before everything happened. Before life got complicated.
My fingers instinctively grasp the door handle, and I take a slow breath before stepping out. I need to pick up Cohen. Maybe the mundane routine will help clear my mind. Seeing his smile will remind me what matters most.
As much as the past with Cole lingers in my lungs like smoke in my lungs, Cohen is my air. He’s the reason I kept going. He’s the reason I still do.
But every time Cole gets a little closer. When he looks at me, it's like he still knows me. I feel the weight of what I haven’t told him settle heavier on my shoulders.
It’s not just about protecting myself anymore. It’s about Cohen, and I don’t know if telling the truth will give him something…or take everything away.
Still, as I walk up the porch steps, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder toward town. Toward Cole.
Toward the truth I’m still too scared to say out loud.
And I wonder for what feels like the hundredth time if he’s glancing back too. If he knows there’s more to our story. If deep down he feels it.
Because someday soon, I know I’ll have to stop running, and when I do, the truth is going to change everything.
My dad greets me with a smile that always makes me feel like a kid again, even though I’m way passed that stage.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Your little man’s buried in his comics in the living room.”
The phrase ‘little man’ makes my throat tighten in the best way. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, smiling as I slip past him. Cohen is sprawled on the couch, absorbed in his comic book world, completely untethered from the chaos of mine.
I lean against the doorframe, watching him for a second. He’s lost in the vibrant world on the page, and it’s like he’s traveling somewhere safe and pure. I envy how easily he can get lost there.
“Cohen,” I call softly, stepping into the room. “Time to come home.”
He groans, flipping over like a pancake, still holding the comic. “Mom, do I have to? I was just getting to the best part.”
“You can finish it at home,” I reply, ruffling his hair as I cross the room. “Now grab your things so we can go.”
He huffs but obliges, retrieving his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. “Fine. But tonight we are definitely making pizza, right?”
He knows that question softens me every time. “Maybe,” I allow, raising an eyebrow. “But first—homework before you get to those comics. Understand?”
He groans again. “Homework is so boring,” he complains, sinking a little as he waits for me to break.
I smile and soften my tone. “I know, lovebug. But you’ve got to do it if you want anything else.”
He shrugs, then stops at the door to wave back. “Bye, Grandma! Bye, Grandpa! I’ll see you later!”
My mom, just stepping in from the kitchen, crouches down to his level. “See you later, sweetheart. And don’t forget to call when you get home.”
“I won’t,” he promises, giving her a quick hug. “Love you, Grandma!”
