Didn’t explain.
Later, when I asked casually—testing the water—she told me he was six. But even then, I remember thinking: He looked too tall to be six. Too aware. He had her eyes, maybe. Or maybe someone else’s.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unspoken between the lines.
Jeremiah smirks and says I owe him a fully stocked toolbox now that I’ve got a steady paycheck, and Isla jumps in right after, saying I better be ready to buy her food anytime she wants because “having a brother with money should come with perks.” I laugh with them, and it feels good—effortless, even. Almost like no time has passed at all.
But there’s still this tiny crack running through the moment,barely visible unless you know where to look. And I do. I feel it every time the conversation dips for even a second, like a draft sneaking in under the door.
But somewhere in the middle of all the noise and comfort, my mind drifts back to a night not that long ago. Just a few weeks, maybe.
I came in for a quick dinner alone, just something fast before heading out. I was on my way to the door when it opened and Kenna walked in. The moment caught me off guard, like time paused for a second. She looked just as surprised as I felt.
Then, a kid came running out from the back. A boy, probably six or seven years old, bursting with energy and confidence. He was holding a bag of pretzels and a water bottle, and the first word out of his mouth was “Mom.”
I remember that moment like a pin dropping in a silent room.
She didn’t correct him.
Didn’t explain.
Later, when I asked casually to test the waters, she told me he was six. Even then, I remember thinking he looked too tall for that age. Too aware of everything around him. His eyes reminded me of hers. Or maybe they belonged to someone else entirely.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something unspoken between the lines.
The kind of quiet omission that doesn’t scream, but lingers. The kind that makes you doubt whether you’re imagining things, or if you just walked past the edge of a truth someone didn’t want you to find.
I haven’t asked again. Haven’t brought it up. Maybe because I didn’t want to seem like I was prying. Or maybe because a part of me already knows that whatever the answer is, it’s not simple.
And with Kenna, it never is.
There’s something about the way she looked at me that night. Not surprised, exactly. More like...caught. Like the second Cohen called her “Mom,” something inside her went still. And she didn’tsay a word. Just gave me that look—like a held breath. Like bracing for impact.
Cohen didn’t seem to notice the shift. He kept talking, animated and proud of himself, flexing his arms and talking about muscles and calculators. He reminded me of myself at that age, if I’d had that kind of joy still intact. If I hadn’t already started folding in on myself.
I remember laughing. I remember playing along. But inside, the questions were already forming. Quiet, slow, stubborn.
The kind that waits.
Now, sitting here, surrounded by family and laughter, that feeling creeps back in.
Kenna’s hiding something. I don’t know what, and I don’t know why, but I know what I saw. And I know what I heard.
I glance around the restaurant without meaning to. There were no signs of her tonight. No Cohen, either. Just Reuben behind the counter, slipping in and out of the kitchen, like this is any other Thursday night.
But now that I’m looking, I see it. Reuben stiffens just slightly when Mom mentions Harris’s name. The way his eyes flicked toward me, then away. Like he’s thinking about something else. Something more.
Maybe I’m imagining it. Or maybe Reuben knows more than he lets on. He’s protective—always has been. Especially of Kenna.
Which only makes me wonder harder. What is he trying to protect her from? Or...who?
I stir my drink slowly, eyes drifting toward the kitchen door without meaning to. Half-expecting him to come running out again. Cohen. That was his name. She told me that too. Said it meantbrave.
The thing is, brave kids usually get it from somewhere. Someone. And if that someone isn’t Kenna, then who is it? And if itisKenna… why lie? Why pretend?
There’s a theory forming in my head I don’t want to say out loud. Not yet. Not even to myself. Because if it’s true…
Then everything I thought I knew about that night—abouther—gets rewritten.
