Chapter 6 Lena
LENA
Five years later
The sun on my face is the first thing I feel. The second is thirty pounds of child dropping onto my stomach and knocking the air out of me. "Mama, you are asleep forever," Jace declares and sprawls across me, arms wide.
I wheeze and wrap an arm around him. "I am very alive and very crushed."
He presses his palms into my belly and grins. "You are a soft mountain. I climb you."
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.
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 his arms 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.
The car feels very quiet once I am alone. I put on a playlist, let the music fill the empty space, and drive to the juice bar. Maya, the owner, waves me in from behind the counter. "You are my favorite person today," she calls. "I have all the pretty fruit ready."
The air smells sharp and fresh. Oranges, mint, mango. Her new assistant stands near the crates and fiddles with the hem of her T-shirt.
She has soft arms and a round belly and the kind of wary eyes I know too well. "Hi," I say. "I'm Lena, and I'm going to annoy you by moving things around for the next hour."
She smiles a little. "I am Rhea."
I set my board near the big front window and start sorting fruit. Bright ones in one pile, softer colors in another. Maya chats while she washes glasses.
I ask Rhea if she wants to pour one of the juices for a shot, only her hands in the frame. She flushes and shakes her head fast.
"I'm not good on camera," she says.
"It’s juice, not a movie," I answer. "If you change your mind, you tell me. If you don't, that is fine too."
She relaxes a bit and steps closer to watch. I shoot overhead views of sliced citrus and close shots of juice streaming into clear glasses.
I leave fingerprints and stray droplets in some of the pictures on purpose.
I like it when food looks touched and wanted, not frozen and fake.
When we finish, Maya hands me a smoothie and refuses payment. "You make everything look alive," she says. "I hope you charge more than you did last year."
"I'm working on it," I say, and I mean it.
From there I swing by the grocery store for basics. Pasta. Milk. Fresh fruit.
A box of cereal that Jace will pick apart to find the marshmallows.
At the flower stand I grab a small bunch of daisies.
They were on sale, and the house always feels nicer when something is blooming on the table.