His hands were around a mug of coffee and his eyes went sharp. "You are pregnant," he said. "From who?"
"I'm keeping my baby," I answered. "That is the important part."
"Lena, don't play games," he answered. "Your life is hard enough already. Is he going to marry you? Is he going to take responsibility? Have you at least picked someone stable? I told you this would happen if you did not get your weight under control. Men are not kind about these things."
I remember my palms going damp and my throat getting hot. "My body is not the problem here," I replied. "And I'm not marrying someone just to tick a box."
He had snorted and shaken his head. "You're far too proud. You always were. A child needs a father. You can't do this alone. You think love will fix everything. It doesn't work like that. You need to think long-term, lose some weight, present yourself better, find a man who is willing to take both of you."
That conversation sat between us for a long time.
Through the pregnancy, through the birth, through every tense visit where he made small remarks about how I was "still carrying baby weight" and how Jace would be happier if I brought home "a strong male figure." We never talked about who the father was.
He pushed the names of "good men" he thought I should meet. I stopped picking up his calls as often.
Our relationship shrank into short check-ins and quick visits so he could see his grandson.
Jace loves him.
I set boundaries for myself. That is the best I can do for now.
"Mama, eat before your dinosaur gets cold," Jace says now, tapping my plate with his fork.
I push the old scenes away and focus on the one in front of me. "Yes, Boss," I say and finish my breakfast.
By eight thirty, we are in the usual rush. Jeans, socks, toothbrush, the drama of one missing shoe that somehow always appears in the bathroom.
I pack his snack box with fruit and a small cookie. He adds a sticker to the lid because he says food tastes better when the box is decorated.
I grab my camera bag from its hook by the door and do a quick mental check. Batteries. Lenses. Memory cards. Wipes for sticky fingers.
I work as a food photographer now. It started as a hobby when I could not afford to go out and made fancy plates at home instead. I took pictures and posted them in a small online corner.
Then a café asked if I could shoot their specials.
A local magazine asked for photos for a piece on comfort food. It turned into steady work.
Menus, social media packages for small restaurants, occasional features where I also write a short note about enjoying food without shame.
I don't lecture.
I just show full plates and full people and trust that the right women will see themselves in those frames.
We walk down the stairs hand in hand. "Are you going to the juice bar today?" Jace asks.
"I am," I say. "They want pictures of very serious fruit."
He snickers. "Fruit is not serious."
"Wait until you see these oranges," I say.
Drop-off at school is loud and chaotic, and I kind of love it. Kids shout. Parents dodge each other in the hallway. Jace wraps hisarms around my neck for one last tight hug before he joins the sea of tiny backpacks.
"Bye, Mama," he says into my shoulder. "Love you big, big, big."
"I love you bigger," I say. "Be kind. Have fun. Listen to your teacher."
He nods, already halfway turned toward the classroom, and then he is gone.
