“Is that so?” I smiled, warming to him. “You seem like an expert.”
He giggled, swinging his legs. “Mom says I could live off pancakes and coloring books.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “And apparently, chocolate milk. He’ll bounce off the walls all afternoon.”
“Is that so?”
“My son loved chocolate milk,” I said. “Even when he was 18 years old, Theo, he used to have a glass after dinner every night.”
Mark smiled, then looked at me. “We come here every Saturday. It’s a tradition.”
I glanced at the other families, couples lost in their own mornings. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere again.
Theo pulled a crayon from his pocket and started doodling on a napkin.
“Can you draw, Ms. Rose?”
“I can. But I’m not very good at it.”
“My son loved chocolate milk.”
He giggled. We bent our heads together, sketching a lopsided dog and a big yellow sun. Ivy watched us, her guard dropping, bit by bit. After a moment, she slid her pot of tea across the table.
“You take sugar, right, Rose?” she asked.
I nodded, stirring in two packets, my hands a little steadier.
Theo looked up, his eyes shining. “Are you coming next Saturday, too?”
I caught Ivy’s eye. She gave a small, brave smile. “If you’d like.”
“Are you coming next Saturday, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”
For once, it felt like the world was letting someone new begin, right there over pancakes and crayons and second chances.
Now, I’d always have a living part of my son with me.
And as Theo leaned against my arm, humming the same tune Owen once loved, I knew that grief could bloom into something new — something bright enough for both of us.
