There’s a part of me that wants to scream at him for the years he missed, even though I know if he had the choice he never would’ve left.
Another part of me wants to ask him how many nights he sat alone in silence thinking about us. Thinking about me.
And then there’s the muted part, the one I barely acknowledge,that just wants to feel his arms around me again. Like it used to be. Before everything.
I shove the thought away as I kick my shoes off by the door and head to the kitchen. It’s Sunday, and that means it’s just me and Cohen today.
No distractions.
No noise.
Just the promise of something simple, something soft, something safe.
I pull out ingredients for breakfast, but as the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing fills the space, I glance up the stairs at Cohen’s room. He’s still asleep, the faint sound of his quiet breathing reaching me through the walls. I smile softly to myself as I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them together with the sourdough starter and flour to make pancakes.
The house is still. Golden light filters through the kitchen windows, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the day is waiting for us to fill it with something beautiful.
Cohen has been my entire world since he was born. Even now, at eight years old, he still surprises me every single day.
I wonder if he’ll ever truly know how he saved me. His laugh brought light to the days that felt like nothing but ash. How his tiny, stubborn heart taught me to fight again. For him and for myself.
When I hear him stir, I set the whisk down and wipe my hands on a dishtowel, already moving toward the stairs. His quiet footsteps pad down the hallway above me, followed by the soft creak of his bedroom door opening.
A moment later, he appears at the top of the stairs, barefoot, hair sticking out in every direction, pajamas slightly wrinkled. His eyes are still heavy with sleep as he rubs one with the back of his hand, blinking down at me.
“Mom…” he calls, voice small and hoarse with sleep.
“I’m right here, lovebug,” I say softly, stepping toward the stairs.
He doesn’t come down. He just stands there, quiet, like he’s waiting for something. And then, in a voice that’s barely louder than a whisper, he says, “Can you hold me?”
God, that does something to me.
I nod immediately, my heart already swelling. “Of course, baby.”
I meet him halfway up the stairs, and the moment I kneel, his little body melts against me like he’s been holding in the need for comfort all night. His arms loop tightly around my neck, and I scoop him up, pressing my hand to the back of his head as he buries his face in my shoulder.
He’s getting heavier now, not so small anymore. But right now, he feels like my whole heart in my arms.
“I had a weird dream,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by my shirt. “I don’t remember it, but it felt…weird.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, rocking him gently. “You’re safe now. Just a dream. I’ve got you.”
We stay like that for a while, sitting on the stairs in the warm morning light. His legs dangle at my sides, his breathing slowing, his body going limp with the kind of trust that undoes me every single time.
These are the moments no one ever tells you about, when your child simply needs to be held, and all at once, the world feels quiet and full of meaning again.
He doesn’t ask about pancakes or the zoo. Not yet. He just needs me. Just this.
I press a kiss into his curls and rest my chin gently on top of his head, closing my eyes for a second longer than I should. For a breath, I let the weight of everything else fall away—Cole, the bar, the questions I’m still too afraid to ask myself.
“Do you wanna stay like this a little longer?” I ask.
He nods against me. “Yeah.”
So I carry him to the couch, curling into the corner as I settlehim on my lap. He tucks in closer, warm and soft, his thumb grazing the edge of my sleeve as he rests.
He won’t always want to be held like this. One day, I’ll miss the weight of him in my arms. The way he fits perfectly against me.
