I bend slightly to his height, trying to see things from his perspective—the oversized cartoon animals on the signs, the bright banners fluttering in the wind, the excited squeals from other kids. And for a second, I forget everything else. There’s just this—Cohen’s small hand in mine, the scent of sunscreen, and the weightlessness of this one moment.
By the time we reach the zoo, Cohen can barely sit still. He jumps out of the car before I even have a chance to park, and I follow him, trying to keep up with his boundless energy. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the entrance, dragging me past the gift shop, the flamingo pond, and all the other exhibits that weneedto see first.
We stop at the giraffes, and Cohen’s eyes grow wide when he spots them towering above him. He stands on his tiptoes, trying to get closer, while I watch, amused. He’s so caught up in the moment, so full of wonder that it makes my heart swell.
“Mom, look! They’resotall!” he shouts, pointing toward a giraffe with its head in the trees. “How do they eat that stuff up there?”
I crouch down next to him. “They just stretch their necks really long. Like this.” I reach up as high as I can, stretching my arms over my head. “See?”
He laughs, looking at me like I’m the funniest person he’s ever seen. “You look like a giraffe!”
I laugh with him, squeezing his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. I try my best.”
I watch him for a moment longer, his face tilted up, his mouth slightly open in awe. His eyes follow every slow, graceful movement of the giraffe’s neck. I wonder how much of this he’ll remember when he’s older. I hope it stays with him—not just the animals, but the way it felt to be loved like this. To be held in the safety of a normal day.
We wander from exhibit to exhibit—sloths, meerkats, zebras—each animal more fascinating than the last. We stop at a small outdoor café, and Cohen insists on getting a cold lemonade. We sip our drinks, sitting on the benches and watching the other families wander by. It’s peaceful. Quiet. A simple day.
Cohen’s legs swing beneath the bench, and he hums softly between sips, completely at ease. I let my gaze drift to the families nearby—moms with strollers, dads with cameras, grandparents clutching sticky hands. And it hits me—how easy they all look. How settled. I wonder if they had to fight this hard for their peace, or if it just… came to them.
By the time we’ve finished up at the zoo, Cohen is practically dragging me to the park. He’s had his fill of animals for the day, but his energy is nowhere near running out. I follow him through the playground, making sure he’s safe as he climbs to the top of the jungle gym, slides down the slide at lightning speed, and swings higher than I thought was possible.
A little girl falls near the swings, and Cohen is the first to reach her, offering his hand. “Are you okay?” he askssoftly, his brow furrowed. I don’t say a word, but I feel my chest ache with pride. He’s got that gentle soul. Just like his father.
She nods and scampers back to her feet, brushing gravel from her knees, and Cohen gives her a small smile before running back to me like it was nothing. I crouch down to meet him and gently run my thumb across a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
“You’re a good kid, you know that?” I murmur, my voice thick.
He grins. “I learned from the best.”
And just like that, I feel myself unravel a little. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him in, and he lets me. No protest. Just a small, contented sigh. I don’t know how long I’ll get to be this person to him—the center of his world. But I’ll take every second of it.
As the sun starts to dip lower in the sky, I know it’s time to wind things down. “Okay, kiddo,” I say, pulling him off the swings, “we’ve had a full day. What do you say we grab some dinner and head home?”
“I’m starving,” Cohen agrees immediately, his stomach growling loudly. “Can we get pizza?”
“Pizza it is,” I say, already picturing the warm, cheesy slices I’ll order. “But first, let’s stop at the ice cream place for a treat.”
Cohen’s eyes widen. “Ice cream?! Yes!”
He pumps his fists in the air like he just won a trophy. And maybe he did. Maybe this—this whole day—is the kind of trophy you only realize was precious when you’re older, flipping through half-remembered moments.
We stop at a small, local ice cream shop on the way home, Cohen devouring his cone in record time while I sit back and savor mine. He’s covered in sticky chocolate, his face a mess, but it’s the happiest I’ve seen him all week. It’s these moments, these little slices of happiness, that remind me how much I’m doing right.
“I think we should head over to Millie’s house for a bit,” Isuggest as we make our way toward the exit. “We can grab some dinner afterward. Sound good?”
Cohen doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah! I wanna see Aura.”
When we pull up to Millie’s house, I’m immediately hit with the feeling that everything’s going to be okay here. The soft laughter I hear from the yard pulls me out of my thoughts, and I breathe a little easier. The house is cozy, familiar, and the air smells like flowers and fresh grass. I can already feel the weight of the world lifting, just by being in this space.
Millie comes out to greet us, her hand resting lightly on her belly. She looks radiant, a soft glow about her that makes my chest tighten. Three months in, and she’s already glowing with excitement for the little one on the way.
“Hey, Kenna!” she says, her voice warm as she steps toward me.
“Hey, Millie,” I reply, returning her smile. “How’s the little one doing?”
Millie rubs her belly affectionately, her eyes lighting up. “Great! Three months in, and feeling good. But I don’t know how much longer that’ll last. I’m still getting used to the idea of being pregnant again.”
“I get it,” I say softly, my thoughts drifting back to my own pregnancy with Cohen. “I remember feeling the same way when I was pregnant with Cohen. It was…a lot to process.”
