Page 53 of Reeves

I glance at the framed photo beside my computer. Benjy at five, chocolate frosting on his chin, eyes crinkled at the corners.

Reeves’ eyes.

I sit with that for a second, then turn back to my notes and keep working.

The macaroni boilson the stove while Benjy sits at thekitchen table, crayons scattered across paper as he recreates his beach adventure.

“And then I dug it super deep, Mom.” He doesn’t look up as he picks a blue crayon. “So when the pirates come at night, they won’t see it.”

I stir the pot and watch the pasta swirl in the bubbling water. “Smart thinking. Pirates never look down.”

“That’s exactly what I told Gigi.” His crayon moves in quick strokes. “The trap has sharp sticks at the bottom.”

When I set his plate in front of him, he looks up.

“Can we go back tomorrow?” he asks. “To see if we caught any pirates?”

“Tomorrow’s an early day. Maybe after school.”

His face brightens. “I bet we catch at least three.”

We eat at the small kitchen table while he explains the trap in careful detail, his legs swinging beneath his chair. I watch his hands move while he talks, the way he leans forward when something matters to him.

He gives himself over to things completely. There’s no hesitation in it, no calculation. I don’t know how it would change him to care about someone who won't stay.

Our home, this spot at the table with him after a long day, is warm and easy. It's the kind of easy that took years to build and could shift faster than I’m ready for.

After dinner, he helps clear the table without being asked. Bath time follows, then pajamas, then teeth.

By the time we reach his room, he’s already half yawning.

“Mom,” he says as I pull the space-themed blanket up under his chin, “why do you look tired?”

My hand pauses on the blanket. “Do I?”

He nods seriously. “Your eyes are doing the squinty thing.”

I smooth his hair back from his forehead, buying myself a second. He notices more than I want him to.

“Just a long day, buddy.” I push a single stubborn strand back. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“You should sleep more,” he says with complete authority. “Like me.”

I laugh quietly and kiss his forehead. “That’s excellent advice.”

Two chapters into his book, his eyelids start to droop. A few minutes later, his breathing deepens and steadies.

I linger in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, trying to imagine what it would look like if someone else became part of this room. Of us.

Reeves’ voice drifts back through my memory.

I just want to meet him. He doesn’t have to know who I am yet.

Mom’s words follow, quieter but harder to ignore.

He deserves to know his father.

In the quiet living room, I pick up my phone. I stare at Reeves's name on the screen, mixed in with the other names of people who belong in my life. Seeing him listed there is jarring.