My dad stands in the doorway, grinning. “Take care, little man. And don’t give your mom a hard time about that homework. You hear me?”
Cohen gives his usual exaggerated salute. “I’ll try not to, Grandpa. No promises!”
They both laugh, and I exchange a warm, knowing look with them. These moments—so ordinary and full—they remind me who I am. Who I’ve always been. A mom, loved, still in need of grounding, held together by home.
At home, Cohen dumps his backpack and vaults onto the couch. “Mom! I’m gonna finishSuperheroes Uniteand then start my homework. Promise.”
I lean in from the doorway, voice firm but soft. “Homework comes first. No comics until that math assignment is done.”
He groans again, quietly this time, but settles his shoulders and reaches for a pencil. Being a mom is a delicate dance in these quiet negotiations.
I head to the kitchen and grab the sourdough pizza dough I made earlier. The hum of the fridge and the gentle rhythm of chopping vegetables offering space for my mind to circle back to Cole. That walk—familiar, heavy, half-familiar—won’t stop echoing through my head.
Minutes pass. My stirring the pizza sauce meets no response, and a small voice drifts in: “Mom! I’m done with my homework. Can I read now?”
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, pencil behind his ear and a hopeful look on his face. “Once dinner’s done,” I tell him, “and if you help me cook, the books are all yours.”
He bounds forward, eyes bright, offering enthusiastic agreement. “Deal! But you have to promise…extra cookies tonight, okay?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Comics, cookies, and ambition. You’ve got big plans. Let’s take it one step at a time.”
The oven preheats behind me, filling the kitchen with a low buzz as the smell of yeast and tomato sauce hangs in the air. Cohen stands on his step stool beside the counter, dusted in flour like he’s been through something serious. He presses his small hands into the pizza dough with intense concentration, his tongue poking out the way it always does when he’s focused.
“Easy,” I laugh softly. “You’re not trying to win a wrestling match with it.”
He squints at the dough. “It’s stubborn.”
“That’s because you’re bossing it around,” I say, sliding the rolling pin closer. “You have to be nice to it.”
He considers that for a moment, then pats the dough gently. “Please be a pizza.”
I bite back a smile. “That usually works.”
“Okay, chef,” I say, checking the sauce. “What’s our dinner rating look like?”
He grins. “Ten outta ten. Michelin-star level. But it would be better with cookies.”
I laugh and ruffle his hair. “You’re relentless.”
“That’s because I’m a growing boy,” he says seriously. “I need sugar for my brain.”
I hand him a spoon with a bit of sauce on it. “Try that. Tell me what it’s missing.”
He tastes it with dramatic flair, squints thoughtfully, then nods. “It’s good. But I think…it needs love.”
“You think so?” I ask, amused.
He shrugs. “Everything tastes better when you’re happy.”
That quiet comment lodges itself in my chest a little too firmly. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to real happiness. I smile, I go through the motions, but that deep, genuine sense of joy. The kind that fills you up and makes you feel alive has been missing from my life for what feels like forever.
When the pizza is finally assembled, lopsided and overloaded with cheese, we slide it into the oven together. Cohen watches through the glass like it’s something magical, his shoulder brushing against my hip.
“This is gonna be the best pizza ever,” he declares.
I wrap an arm around him, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It already is.”
We sit at the kitchen table and eat what Cohen is calling the best pizza ever. It amazes me how grown up he is. I think I took it for granted when he was a baby. I mean I was just a baby myself when he was born. I look up at his proud of what he has accomplished and whatIhave accomplished too.
