“You know, you’ve been really on top of your homework lately,” I say as I sit across from him. “I’m proud of you.”
He looks up mid-bite, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. “Thanks, Mom.” He swallows. “It’s ‘cause I wanna be a scientist. Or a comic book writer. Or maybe both.”
“A comic-writing scientist?”
“Yeah, I could do science during the day and draw superheroes who save the world with chemistry at night.”
“That sounds pretty amazing.”
He grins at me, his eyes wide and full of the hope that knocks the breath from my lungs. “You think I can really do that?”
I reach over, brushing a stray piece of pasta off his chin. “I know you can. You can do anything you want to, lovebug.”
He beams, and for a few moments, everything else falls away. Right now, it’s just Cohen and me sitting at the kitchen table with too much pizza and not enough napkins.
“You okay, Mom?” he asks suddenly, peering at me over his cup of juice. “You’ve been kind of quiet.”
I blink. “I’m okay, just thinking about how tired I am.”
He squints at me like he doesn’t believe me but lets it go. “You should take a nap tomorrow. Grown-ups don’t nap enough.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I force a soft laugh. “I’ll pencil it in between dishes and laundry.”
After dinner, Cohen helps me clear the table—well, tries to. He drops a fork, makes a dramatic face like the world is ending, and I catch it just before the meltdown hits. He mutters a sheepish “sorry,” and I ruffle his hair in response.
Later, he nestles into the couch, curled under his favorite blanket, comic book balanced on his knees. The scent of tomato sauce still lingers in the kitchen, warm and familiar. I lean against the doorway for a moment, letting the peace settle in.
I’m about to head upstairs when I hear his voice—soft, not dramatic this time.
“Mom?”
I glance back. He’s not looking at his comic anymore. He’s watching me.
“Yeah, lovebug?”
He hesitates. “How come I’ve never met my dad?”
The air leaves the room.
My hand stills on the dish towel. My stomach tightens, not with guilt, but with the impossible weight of a question I’ve been waiting for—and dreading.
“I mean…” Cohen sits up straighter, adjusting the blanket around him. “I’ve met Grandma and Grandpa. Uncle Reuben. Even Uncle Gabriel. But not him. Was he…a bad guy?”
His voice isn’t angry. Just curious. A little too mature for his eight years, like he’s pieced the puzzle together all on his own and is now quietly holding out the missing piece.
I cross the room and sit beside him, brushing his curls gently from his forehead.
“No, baby. He isn’t a bad guy.”
“Then…why isn’t he here?”
I take a breath and choose my words slowly, carefully. “That’s a really big question, and it’s kind of tricky to answer.”
“Did he leave?”
“No,” I say firmly. “He didn’t leave because he wanted to. He…had to go away when you were really little. And I made the choice to raise you on my own. I thought it was the best way to protect you. To keep life simple. Safe.”
He’s quiet, eyes narrowing just slightly in thought.
