I used to hate the way my stomach felt under someone's hands. Now it is a pillow for a four-year-old who trusts my body more than I ever did. I hold him tighter and kiss his messy curls. "Good morning, Boss," I say.
He pulls back and straightens his little T-shirt. "I am not just boss. I am the owner of the tea room. You are late for breakfast."
"Then the owner must forgive me," I say, pushing myself to sit. "The chef was very tired."
We climb out of bed together. My back pops immediately and my hair is a disaster. I shove it up anyway.
The house is small and bright, with thrifted furniture and prints I shot myself on the walls. There is one bedroom for both of us, a narrow hall, and a living area that has to pretend it is a kitchen, dining space, and my office.
The lease has my name only, and that still feels like a flipping victory every time I think about it. The tea room lives beside the kitchen. It started as a joke and turned into a permanent fixture.
A tiny table, two small chairs, a toy teapot and cups that don't match. Jace climbs into his chair and adjusts a plastic menu he drew in crayons. "Today's special is dinosaur pancakes," he announces. "You are the special guest."
I open the fridge and take out eggs and milk. "Does the special guest have to help in the kitchen?"
He sighs in a very grown-up way. "Yes. Because I am only four and my arms are small."
We crack eggs into a bowl. He talks the whole time about which dinosaur is going on which plate.
I whisk the batter while he drops chocolate chips in very serious little clusters.
I pour rough shapes into the hot pan and do my best to give them tails and heads.
They are a bit crooked, but he gasps when I slide the first one in front of him, so I guess they are perfect where it matters. "This is art," he declares around a mouthful. "You are the best chef."
"Please tell that to my boss," I say and take a bite of my own pancake. Syrup drips onto my fingers. I lick it off and try not to think about the last adult who watched me eat with that much focus.
The morning feels solid and warm. Pancakes. Sticky fingers. This small, bright house that I pay for with work I like.
It is a far cry from where I was five years ago, standing in a bedroom that did not belong to me, wrapped in sheets that held someone else's scent, still sore from the best night of my life and already bracing for the worst morning after.
I had woken up in Gabe's bed with my muscles loose and my heart too full. For a few quiet seconds, there was no sound except my own breathing, and the space beside me was warm.
Then I rolled over and saw the tray. Coffee made exactly the way I took it, although I'd never told him.
A brownie, warmed and neat on a plate. A folded note propped against the mug, written in his careful handwriting. He had stepped out.
I should take my time.
We would talk when he came back.
My hand had shaken when I picked up the note. I could hear the talk without him there.You deserve more than what I can offer. I'm gone too often. This is complicated. You're young. I'm a mess. We should forget this.The words on the page felt kind.
The empty room felt anything but kind. I had sat there for a long moment with the sheet pulled up and the smell of coffee in the air and something cold working its way through my chest.
Then I folded the note, got dressed, and walked out of his house before he could come back and turn the night into a speech I didn't want to hear.
Not too long later, I stood in my own small bathroom and watched a second pink line appear on a drugstore test.
My legs had gone weak at first, because we had used protection, and somehow, that hadn't worked. My head spun.
Then something inside me clicked into a straight line. I took a breath, wiped my face, and started making lists in my head.
Money. Work. Space. Plans.
The father was not on that list.
When I told my dad, he looked at me as if I had done it to annoy him. We sat at his kitchen table, the same one where he had once lectured me about my grades and my clothes and my appetite.
