"Mommy?"
I jolt awake. Morning light filters through the blinds,slicing across my swollen eyes. My throat is raw, my chest heavy. For a moment, I forget where I am—until everything from last night slams back, stealing my breath.
Beckett stands in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clutching his stuffed dog.
"Can I have pancakes?" He tilts his head, a gesture so like Warren it knocks the breath from me for a split second before I can pull myself together.
I force a smile. "Of course, baby. Let's make pancakes."
My throat tightens, but I square my shoulders. Whatever happens with Warren, I have to be steady for my son.
Our son.
After splashing cold water on my face and dragging my hair back, I make it to the kitchen and pull out the ingredients. My hands fumble with the measuring cup, clumsy from a night of no sleep and too many tears, while Beckett climbs onto his chair, still clutching his stuffed animal.
His hair sticks up on one side, making me smile despite the torment ripping through me outside of this moment.
"Can I crack the egg? Please?" Beckett bounces on his knees. "I won't get shells in it this time."
"One egg." I slide the carton toward him, watching his face scrunch in concentration. "Just like I showed you."
The kitchen fills with the sound of cartoons from the living room and Beckett's humming while he taps the egg against the bowl. He is visibly proud when the yolk drops in cleanly.
"I did it, Mommy! No shells!"
His grin is pure triumph, and for a second, it stitches something broken inside me back together.
"Way to go, B." My smile pulls tight, sharp enough to split.
The batter hisses as it hits the hot pan. Everymovement is mechanical. Flip, stack, pour. But that makes it easier, somehow.
The ache still claws at my chest, no matter how much I stuff it down. I’ve made these pancakes hundreds of times, but today my hands won’t stop shaking.
Warren should be here. He should know how his son likes blueberries arranged in a smiley face, how Beckett always saves the eyes for last.
"Soccer Game today!" Beckett shoves a forkful into his mouth. "Billy is going to be the goalie. I'm going to be a star like Messi."
"Don't talk with your mouth full." I ruffle his hair. "Are you excited to get out there to play with your friends?"
"Uh-huh." Syrup drips down his chin. "Uncle Blake says I'm the kid on my team."
My chest tightens. Uncle Blake. Not dad. Not father. He doesn't know him, and he won't be there.
And it's my fault.
"Do you think I'll score two goals or five?" Beckett tilts his head, hazel eyes bright with hope.
"I think five." I turn away, pouring myself coffee to hide the tears threatening to spill.
"Yeah," he exclaims as he bounces off the stool and makes a kicking motion.
My phone sits on the counter with the screen dark. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab it.
Beckett's soccer game at 10. He loves soccer, and I thought you might want to see him play. It's at Stanford Field on the backside, where the younger kids play.
My hand shakes as I debate pressing the send button. Is this cruel? Too soon?
Fuck it. Warren deserves to see his son, even if he never wants to see me again.