Chapter 6 – Kenna-Present
Chapter Six
STIRRING UP THE SAUCE AND THE PAST
KENNA-PRESENT
The heater hums softly as I drive, but the warmth does nothing to ease the tight knot in my chest, It’s not the cold outside getting to me.
It’s that damn conversation. The one I had with Cole outside the salon.
I’ve been thinking about it all day. It was…
light. Casual. Almost normal? Like the past hadn’t carved deep lines through both of us.
But everything has changed.
The road blurs beneath my tires as I turn onto the familiar streets that lead to my parents house. I grip the steering wheel a little too tight, my thoughts racing faster than the car.
I should be used to this by now—the whirlwind of emotion that hits every time he’s near. But I’m not. I don’t think I ever will be.
A part of me is relieved, like we can still be normal. Maybe even friends, but another part of me is screaming that this is exactly the problem.
Just friends.
That’s not what I want. Not really. Not deep down.
But I know I can’t go back to how things were. I don’t think he can either. Too much time has passed. Too much harm has been caused.
And prison…it changes people. It changed both of us. I didn’t serve time, but I lived in the shadow. I lived in the silence of waiting, of not knowing, of aching for someone who was always just out of reach.
I remember the day they took him away. The sound of the cuffs. The way he looked at me like he was already sorry. I just stood there, helpless. I watched my whole future crumble, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
And now he’s back. Like a ghost, but real. Walking and breathing and trying. I hate that I still want to trust him. That a part of me still hopes.
But more than anything, I hate the secret I’m still carrying.
Cohen.
Our son.
His son.
He doesn’t know. He has no clue, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep it that way.
Every time I look at Cohen, I see pieces of Cole. His eyes, his stubborn little grin, the way he furrows his brows when he’s concentrating. I used to think it would fade. That the resemblance would soften. But it hasn’t. It’s only getting stronger.
With Cole being back, it feels like the walls I’ve built to protect my little boy, to protect myself, are cracking.
But how do you tell someone something like that? How do you look the person who shattered you in the eye and say, “By the way, you’re a father?” Especially when they’ve already lost so much.
I push those thoughts aside as I turn into my parents’ driveway, pulling up behind my dad’s old pickup.
The familiar creak of the gravel under my tires brings a weird comfort.
It’s the same sound I’ve heard since I was a kid.
When all that mattered was running barefoot through this yard, chasing fireflies and not having a clue what heartbreak really meant.
Cohen’s probably inside with my mom, sticky with peanut butter or paint, or both. He’s always creating, always dreaming. I wonder if that’s how I used to be. Before everything happened. Before life got complicated.
My fingers instinctively grasp the door handle, and I take a slow breath before stepping out. I need to pick up Cohen. Maybe the mundane routine will help clear my mind. Seeing his smile will remind me what matters most.
As much as the past with Cole lingers in my lungs like smoke in my lungs, Cohen is my air. He’s the reason I kept going. He’s the reason I still do.
But every time Cole gets a little closer. When he looks at me, it's like he still knows me. I feel the weight of what I haven’t told him settle heavier on my shoulders.
It’s not just about protecting myself anymore. It’s about Cohen, and I don’t know if telling the truth will give him something…or take everything away.
Still, as I walk up the porch steps, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder toward town. Toward Cole.
Toward the truth I’m still too scared to say out loud.
And I wonder for what feels like the hundredth time if he’s glancing back too. If he knows there’s more to our story. If deep down he feels it.
Because someday soon, I know I’ll have to stop running, and when I do, the truth is going to change everything.
My dad greets me with a smile that always makes me feel like a kid again, even though I’m way passed that stage.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Your little man’s buried in his comics in the living room.”
The phrase ‘little man’ makes my throat tighten in the best way. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, smiling as I slip past him. Cohen is sprawled on the couch, absorbed in his comic book world, completely untethered from the chaos of mine.
I lean against the doorframe, watching him for a second. He’s lost in the vibrant world on the page, and it’s like he’s traveling somewhere safe and pure. I envy how easily he can get lost there.
“Cohen,” I call softly, stepping into the room. “Time to come home.”
He groans, flipping over like a pancake, still holding the comic. “Mom, do I have to? I was just getting to the best part.”
“You can finish it at home,” I reply, ruffling his hair as I cross the room. “Now grab your things so we can go.”
He huffs but obliges, retrieving his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. “Fine. But tonight we are definitely making pizza, right?”
He knows that question softens me every time. “Maybe,” I allow, raising an eyebrow. “But first—homework before you get to those comics. Understand?”
He groans again. “Homework is so boring,” he complains, sinking a little as he waits for me to break.
I smile and soften my tone. “I know, lovebug. But you’ve got to do it if you want anything else.”
He shrugs, then stops at the door to wave back. “Bye, Grandma! Bye, Grandpa! I’ll see you later!”
My mom, just stepping in from the kitchen, crouches down to his level. “See you later, sweetheart. And don’t forget to call when you get home.”
“I won’t,” he promises, giving her a quick hug. “Love you, Grandma!”
My dad stands in the doorway, grinning. “Take care, little man. And don’t give your mom a hard time about that homework. You hear me?”
Cohen gives his usual exaggerated salute. “I’ll try not to, Grandpa. No promises!”
They both laugh, and I exchange a warm, knowing look with them. These moments—so ordinary and full—they remind me who I am. Who I’ve always been. A mom, loved, still in need of grounding, held together by home.
At home, Cohen dumps his backpack and vaults onto the couch. “Mom! I’m gonna finish Superheroes Unite and then start my homework. Promise.”
I lean in from the doorway, voice firm but soft. “Homework comes first. No comics until that math assignment is done.”
He groans again, quietly this time, but settles his shoulders and reaches for a pencil. Being a mom is a delicate dance in these quiet negotiations.
I head to the kitchen and grab the sourdough pizza dough I made earlier. The hum of the fridge and the gentle rhythm of chopping vegetables offering space for my mind to circle back to Cole. That walk—familiar, heavy, half-familiar—won’t stop echoing through my head.
Minutes pass. My stirring the pizza sauce meets no response, and a small voice drifts in: “Mom! I’m done with my homework. Can I read now?”
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, pencil behind his ear and a hopeful look on his face. “Once dinner’s done,” I tell him, “and if you help me cook, the books are all yours.”
He bounds forward, eyes bright, offering enthusiastic agreement. “Deal! But you have to promise…extra cookies tonight, okay?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Comics, cookies, and ambition. You’ve got big plans. Let’s take it one step at a time.”
The oven preheats behind me, filling the kitchen with a low buzz as the smell of yeast and tomato sauce hangs in the air.
Cohen stands on his step stool beside the counter, dusted in flour like he’s been through something serious.
He presses his small hands into the pizza dough with intense concentration, his tongue poking out the way it always does when he’s focused.
“Easy,” I laugh softly. “You’re not trying to win a wrestling match with it.”
He squints at the dough. “It’s stubborn.”
“That’s because you’re bossing it around,” I say, sliding the rolling pin closer. “You have to be nice to it.”
He considers that for a moment, then pats the dough gently. “Please be a pizza.”
I bite back a smile. “That usually works.”
“Okay, chef,” I say, checking the sauce. “What’s our dinner rating look like?”
He grins. “Ten outta ten. Michelin-star level. But it would be better with cookies.”
I laugh and ruffle his hair. “You’re relentless.”
“That’s because I’m a growing boy,” he says seriously. “I need sugar for my brain.”
I hand him a spoon with a bit of sauce on it. “Try that. Tell me what it’s missing.”
He tastes it with dramatic flair, squints thoughtfully, then nods. “It’s good. But I think…it needs love.”
“You think so?” I ask, amused.
He shrugs. “Everything tastes better when you’re happy.”
That quiet comment lodges itself in my chest a little too firmly.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to real happiness.
I smile, I go through the motions, but that deep, genuine sense of joy.
The kind that fills you up and makes you feel alive has been missing from my life for what feels like forever.
When the pizza is finally assembled, lopsided and overloaded with cheese, we slide it into the oven together. Cohen watches through the glass like it’s something magical, his shoulder brushing against my hip.
“This is gonna be the best pizza ever,” he declares.
I wrap an arm around him, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It already is.”
We sit at the kitchen table and eat what Cohen is calling the best pizza ever. It amazes me how grown up he is. I think I took it for granted when he was a baby. I mean I was just a baby myself when he was born. I look up at his proud of what he has accomplished and what I have accomplished too.