I blink."Yeah?"
"Can we have pancakes?"
I smile despite everything."Course we can.Go wash your face first, yeah?"
He scrambles out of bed, bare feet slapping against the floor as he runs to the bathroom.I watch him go, my heart so full it hurts.
This is why I can't let anyone in.This right here.Warren needs me to be steady.He needs me whole.And every time I let someone close, they take pieces I can't afford to lose.
Tank took a piece last night.He took my pride, my dignity, and the fragile belief that maybe I could have something for myself.
But I'll get it back.I always do.I have to.
For Warren.
The kitchen's small, with barely the room for a table and two chairs, but it's ours.I make pancakes from scratch, whisking the batter while Warren sits at the table coloring in a book I got him from the charity shop.He hums while he colors, some tune from a cartoon he watches.The sound fills the flat, warm and alive, and for a minute I can almost pretend last night didn't happen.
Almost.
"Mam?"Warren looks up, crayon paused mid-stroke."Are you sad?"
The question catches me off guard.I turn from the stove, spatula in hand."No, love.Why’d you ask?"
He shrugs, eyes too knowing for a five-year-old."You look sad.Like when you cry."
Christ.He sees too much.Always has.
I set the spatula down and crouch beside his chair."I'm not sad.Just tired.I worked late last night, remember?"
"Oh."He studies my face like he's trying to decide if I'm lying.Then he wraps his small arms around my neck and squeezes."I love you, Mam."
My throat closes."I love you too, baby.So much."
We stay like that for a moment, his warmth seeping into me, grounding me.This is what matters.Not Tank.Not my bruised pride.This.
I pull back and ruffle his hair."Finish your coloring.Pancakes'll be ready in a minute."
He goes back to his book, and I go back to the stove, blinking away the sting in my eyes.
I won't cry.Not in front of him.Not over this.
The pancakes come out perfect; golden and fluffy, the way he likes them.I stack three on his plate, drizzle syrup over them, and set his breakfast in front of him.His eyes light up.
"Thanks, Mam!"
"You're welcome, love."
I make myself a cup of tea—I’m too tired for coffee, but too wired to go without caffeine—and sit across from him.He has syrup smeared on his cheek, and I watch him, loving this little bit of normalcy that we have.
This is my life.This is what I chose when I left Declan.Warren and me.Making it work.Being enough.
And I am enough.We're enough.
I don't need anyone else.
I don't want anyone else.
The lie sits bitter on my tongue, but I swallow it down with my tea.
