Cohen tugs at my shirt. “Who was that guy?”
I pause, forcing a neutral tone. “Just someone I used to know.”
He hums like that’s all the answer he needs, then skips off to get napkins.
But I stand there, frozen. Watching Cole through the reflection in the glass of the soda fridge. Wondering if he felt it too. That pull. That almost-realization.
Wondering how long I can keep the truth from spilling out.
When we finally head back home, Cohen’s full of stories about the zoo, the animals, and the fun we had. He’s already talking about his plans for next Sunday, which I know willprobably involve more animals, more ice cream, and endless energy that I’ll need to keep up with.
I smile at him, watching him run ahead toward the door. “Hey, lovebug,” I call out as he reaches the front steps.
He turns around, his face glowing with the innocence and joy only a child can have. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Thanks for today,” I say softly, my voice full of emotion. “I’m lucky to have you.”
Cohen beams. “I’m lucky to have you, too, Mom.”
And in that split second, the ache in my chest that Cole stirred up begins to fade. Cohen is my anchor. My own personal compass. My reason behind it all.
Inside, the house is quiet again, like it’s exhaled all the noise of the day. I flip on the hallway light as Cohen kicks off his sneakers, one sock already halfway off.
“Alright, wild man,” I say, ruffling his hair, “bath time.”
“But I’m not even dirty!” he protests, already dragging his feet toward the bathroom.
“You’re covered in chocolate and zoo dust,” I say with a laugh. “Nice try.”
I run the water while he digs through the cabinet for his bath toys—plastic dinosaurs and faded foam letters that have been with us since he was two. As the tub fills, he climbs in with a dramatic groan, and I kneel beside him with a washcloth.
He lets me wash his hair without complaint, which I silently take as a win. I pour water over his head carefully, shielding his eyes with my hand, and he looks up at me through the drops like I’ve just performed a magic trick.
“Can we read a book tonight?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “But teeth first.”
He gives me a look that says he’d really like to skip the teeth, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe because he knows I’ll always make time for stories. For us.
After he’s dried off and in his pajamas—his favorite soft cotton set with little rocket ships—I hand him his toothbrush. Hebrushes diligently while making faces at himself in the mirror, and I can’t stop the smile that creeps onto my lips.
He climbs into bed with a dramatic flop, and I settle next to him with his current favorite book. As I read, his eyelids flutter close, but he fights it with a soft sigh.
“Mom?” he mumbles.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Do you think giraffes get tired of being tall?”
I pause, smiling into the dark. “Maybe. But I think being tall helps them see more of the world.”
His breathing evens out. I press a kiss to his forehead, smoothing back his curls.
“Goodnight, Cohen.”
I sit beside his bed for a few minutes longer than I need to. Just listening to him breathe. Just soaking in the quiet. After the noise of the day, and the ache of uncertainty that comes with Cole’s return, this is the part that matters most. This is what I never want to lose.
Outside his window, the crickets start their nightly chorus. I lean back slightly in the rocking chair beside his bed—the one I used to sit in when he was a baby, bleary-eyed and afraid I’d never figure it all out. Somehow, I did. Somehow, I’m still doing it.
