“Jack! I’m making breakfast!” I shout in a singsong voice as I walk down the corridor back past his room and into the open kitchen living space of our flat. I am not exactly a master chef, but there are a few things I have perfected; waffles are one of them. I add eggs to the powder mix, as Jack yells after me, “Five more minutes!” his voice muffled where I know he is burying it into his pillow. He acts more like a teenager than a five-year-old most days. I don’t like thinking about how much he is growing, but it is glaringly obvious when I pack the lunch I made last night. My baby is in school and it almost kills me.

The smell of the waffles on the griddle rouses Jack finally as he comes trudging down the hallway with his little blue train blanket clutched in his hand. Maybe there is still some of my little boy there.

After clambering up onto one of the bar stools at the breakfast nook, Jack bundles the blanket up into a makeshift pillow and plonks his head on top. His lack of early bird traits reminds me of his dad, my ex-boyfriend, Michael. He too was a nightmare in the morning. God forbid you wanted to ask him something before his coffee. As long as Jack is where he needs to be on time, and he continues to be the kind kid I know he is, I will let him have his power naps.

When you have kids, you have to pick your battles. Recently, I have been too exhausted to fight any that I won’t win. Having fibromyalgia comes with chronic fatigue and I’m just too drained to argue with him when it isn’t causing any harm. Lately, my fatigue has reached a peak, my mind has been under so much stress that it is punishing me in a physical way. Giving Jack his plate of two waffles with pre-chopped fruit and some apple juice, I think back to when this stress started.

I don’t have to think for long. December. Ever since that night, my mind has moved a mile a minute running through everything. He tried calling me for a few days, but I never picked up. Just because I gave in to giving him my number doesn’t mean I was ever willing to reply. I think it was just the fact that I slipped out hurt his ego. He isn’t used to hearing no. A small part of my brain wanted to answer. That bit of me that still believes in fairy-tales wanted to run into his arms and believe that we are meant to be together, that seeing him that night was fate. I don’t believe in fairy-tales any more.