Page 114 of Cooking Up My Comeback
I keep replaying the devastated look on Brett’s face when I drove away from the beach pavilion. But I had to leave to protect him from the disaster tornado following me everywhere I go.
Except... did I really? Or did I just panic and run because facing problems together felt scarier than facing them alone?
At four, I give up on sleep entirely and shuffle downstairs in my ridiculous fuzzy socks—the ones with tiny tacos on them Mason picked out because he said they looked “happy.” Right now they’re the only happy things in my house.
The kitchen feels smaller in the pre-dawn darkness, but Grandma Pearl’s recipe tin sits on the counter like a beacon of hope. I flip it open with hands refusing to stop shaking.
Her handwriting stares back at me—careful measurements for Sunday pot roast and her famous chocolate chess pie. She never second-guessed herself. Never wondered if loving another meant putting them in danger.
Then again, she also never had to deal with stalkers with cameras. But she did have to deal with Grandpa Earl’s stubborn streak and his tendency to bottle up every emotion known to mankind. She used to say the secret to loving a grumpy man was remembering the heart underneath all the gruff.
I trace her lemon pie recipe, the one Brett helped me make when everything was simple and our biggest worry was whether the meringue would hold its peaks. Back when I thought the hardest part of starting over would be learning to trust myself again.
Turns out the hardest part involves learning that love means staying, not running.
By six-thirty, the house starts its daily symphony of controlled mayhem. Mason appears first, stumbling down the stairs in dinosaur pajamas with hair looking like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He climbs into my lap without a word, still radiating perfect sleepy-kid warmth.
“Morning, sunshine,” I whisper against his messy hair.
“Can we make pancakes?” he asks, voice muffled against my shoulder.
I force brightness into my voice. “Sure, sweetheart.”
“Really? With chocolate chips?”
“Absolutely with chocolate chips. Everything’s better with chocolate chips.”
Mason pulls back to study my face with those serious brown eyes. “You look sad, Mama. But also not-sad. It’s confusing.”
Smart kid. “Sometimes grown-ups feel lots of things at once. But the not-sad part is winning.”
“Good. The not-sad part is my favorite.”
The next hour unfolds in the usual controlled pandemonium of breakfast negotiations and missing socks, but I find myself humming while I flip pancakes. Even in the middle of this mess, there’s still chocolate chips and Mason’s giggles and the possibility of fixing what I broke yesterday.
“When’s Brett coming to my fishing tournament Saturday?” Crew asks, inhaling chocolate chip pancakes at record speed.
“I’m not sure, honey. We had a disagreement yesterday.”
“About what?”
How do you explain adult relationship fears to akid? “Sometimes people get scared and make dumb decisions. I made a dumb decision.”
“So fix it,” he says with the simple logic of childhood. “That’s what you tell us to do.”
“You’re absolutely right. I should fix it.”
Tally appears in the kitchen doorway looking annoyingly perfect for someone who rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. She takes one look at my face and tilts her head.
“You look different this morning,” she says, pouring orange juice with teenage precision.
“Different how?”
“Less like Netflix canceled your favorite series. More like you’re prepared to take matters into your own hands and watch a romcom instead.”
Perceptive kid. Too perceptive. “What if I told you I was thinking about calling Brett?”
“I’d say it’s about time. The man bought us a twelve-pack of sidewalk chalk yesterday because Mason mentioned wanting to draw hopscotch courts. He’s not going anywhere, Mom.”
