Something Familiar
This story lives in the “after” of Where the Light Finds Us.
If you haven’t walked that journey yet, I promise it’s worth starting there first.
Jenna
The first time I dipped a Ruffles potato chip into Nutella, Jack looked at me like I’d betrayed every food rule I’d ever taught him.
He froze at the kitchen island, one hand still buried in the open bag of chips, his face pinched in horrified fascination.
“Mom,” he said slowly, “that is disgusting.”
I looked down at the chip in my hand, thick with chocolate hazelnut spread, then back at my son. “It is not.”
“It’s chips and chocolate.” Jack made another face.
“It’s salty and sweet.”
“It’s weird.”
I took a bite and closed my eyes for half a second before I could stop myself. “It’s perfect.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Across the kitchen, Winston lifted his head from his bed, ears perking as if he too had questions about my food choices.
The new kitchen gleamed around us in the late afternoon light, every surface exactly what Luke had insisted I deserved. Creamy stone counters. A deep farmhouse sink. Double ovens. An eight-burner Viking range that still made me emotional if I thought about it too long. Kitchen cabinets filled with the dishes I had picked out myself, not because anyone told me what looked good, but because I liked them.
It had been two years since we moved into this house.
Two years since the gates and cameras and reporters and police tape.
Two years since I learned peace could be built room by room, meal by meal, morning by morning.
And a year since I became Jenna Charles.
Luke had adopted Jack three months after the wedding. We still had the framed photo from the courthouse sitting on the console table by the stairs: Luke in a dark suit, Jack in a clip-on tie he’d chosen himself, both of them crying and pretending they weren’t.
Jack still called him Luke most of the time.
Except when he was tired. Or scared. Or proud.
Then it was Dad.
And every single time, Luke’s face changed like he’d just been given the whole world again.
Jack climbed onto one of the stools and kept watching me eat another Nutella covered chip. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I reached for another chip. “Pretty sure.”
“You’re eating crime food.”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could help it. “Crime food?”
“That’s what Uncle Noah calls stuff that shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Noah eats peanut butter on hot dogs.”
Jack paused, considering this with the seriousness it deserved. “Okay, yeah. But still.”
I twisted the cap back onto the Nutella jar, suddenly aware of the strange little flutter low in my stomach. Not nausea exactly. Not cramps. Just a quiet, trembling awareness.
The chip. The chocolate. The salt.
My hand stilled.
I hadn’t craved this in almost nine years.
Not since I was pregnant with Jack.
The thought moved through me so softly at first I almost didn’t trust it. Then my heart gave one hard beat.
Six months.
Six months of trying. Six months of hope turning into disappointment. Six months of telling Luke it was fine when another test was negative, when my period came, when I stood in the bathroom staring at the little empty window and tried not to feel like my body had failed at one more thing.
Luke never made me feel that way. Not once.
He always pulled me close, kissed my hair, and said, “We’ve got time, doll.”
But I knew he wanted this too.
Not to replace anything. Not to fix anything.
Just because love had made room for more love.
Jack reached across the island and waved a hand in front of my face. “Mom?”
I blinked. “Sorry.”
“You got weird.”
“I did not get weird.”
“You did. You got quiet weird.”
I swallowed, my pulse climbing. “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
I tried to keep my voice casual and failed completely. “Can you go grab the grocery bag from the hall closet? The one from Target?”
He slid off the stool. “Why?”
“Because I forgot something.”
He gave me a look that was pure almost-nine. “Is it more crime food?”
“Just go, mijo.”
He dashed off, Winston following because Winston believed every journey might involve snacks.
I stood alone in the kitchen, one hand pressed to the counter, breathing through the rush of impossible hope. I’d bought the tests two weeks ago and hidden them behind cleaning supplies like a woman who didn’t want to be caught hoping too loudly.
Jack came back carrying the bag. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I took it from him too quickly.
His gaze sharpened. “What’s in there?”
“Adult stuff.”
“Bills?”
“Worse.”
He made a face and retreated immediately. “Gross.”
I almost laughed again.
Ten minutes later, I stood in the bathroom with the door locked, staring down at two pink lines.
Positive.
For a second, I didn’t move. The world narrowed to the test in my hand, the sunlight on the tile, the sound of Winston scratching at the door because personal boundaries were not part of his skill set.
Then I sat down on the edge of the tub and cried.
Not the terrified kind or the broken kind.
The kind that came when joy arrived so gently you didn’t know where to put it.
I pressed my hand low over my stomach.
“Hi,” I whispered.
And somehow, just like that, the house felt even fuller than it had before.
