“Do you feel comfortable talking about your mom?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “It’s easier now than it used to be.”
He folds the dough again, then covers the bowl with a shower cap.
“She passed shortly after I turned eighteen. Car accident.”
My chest tightens.
“Oh, Aiden… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He reaches for the next bowl and slowly stretches the dough before letting it fall back onto itself. “It was a long time ago.”
I watch him for a second.
“It must’ve been hard,” I say. “Being on your own.”
“It was.” He pauses, pressing his palms lightly against the counter before starting another fold. “I didn’t really know what to do with myself.”
“Uncle Mike was my biggest support, though. He’s always been like a dad to me.”
The jam bubbles beside me. I give it another slow stir, watching the fruit collapse into syrup.
“Have you always lived with him?”
He shakes his head.
“No. We moved here when I was ten. I was born in Colorado.”
I glance up, surprised.
“My dad wasn’t a good man.” His hands slow, fingers dusted white with flour.“He drank a lot. Was verbally abusive.”
He pauses.
“My mom stayed for years, trying to keep things together.”
Outside, the dogs look up watching the seagulls flying low.
“One night he drank too much and put his hands on me.”
His hands stop on the dough for a moment.
“That was it for her. Same night, we packed up and left. We made our way here in my mom’s beat-up Beetle.”
I blink, imagining it — ten-year-old Aiden starting over in the middle of the night.
“Uncle Mike took us in,” he says. “Helped us when we needed it most. My mom got a job caregiving at the senior home, and we started over.”
“Did you ever see your dad again?” I ask carefully.
He shakes his head.
“No. He passed away a few years ago. I only found out because I got a letter from his sister.”
“I had a very hard time forgiving him.”
The words hang there, quiet and honest, while the kitchen hums around us.
