98. A Reminder of Past

98. A Reminder of Past
Alina's Pov 

Cooking with Asher was always  a delightful, messy adventure. This morning, he had insisted on helping me make pasta. At just four years old, he had a fiery determination and an eagerness to be involved in whatever I was doing. How could I say no to his bright eyes and infectious enthusiasm?

“Okay, sweetheart, you can help Mommy,” I said, lifting him up to sit on the kitchen counter. His eyes sparkled with joy, and he clapped his tiny hands in excitement.

"Yay! I help Mama," he declared proudly.

I set the ingredients out on the counter: a packet of pasta, a variety of spices, fresh tomatoes, garlic, and onions. Asher leaned forward, eyes wide, surveying the array of items before him. He reached for the spice jars, his small hands struggling a bit with the lids.

“Let me help you with that, love,” I said, gently twisting off the cap of the oregano for him. “This is oregano. Smell it. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Asher took a big whiff and scrunched up his nose, making a face that made me laugh. “Smells funny, Mama,” he giggled.

I placed a pot of water on the stove to boil and handed him a wooden spoon. “You can stir the pasta when it’s ready,” I told him.

He nodded solemnly, as if I’d entrusted him with the most important job in the world. I chopped the onions and garlic, and the sizzle of them hitting the hot olive oil filled the kitchen with a savory aroma. Asher watched intently, fascinated by the transformation happening in the pan.

“Here, sweetheart,” I said, handing him a tiny pinch of salt. “Sprinkle this into the water.”

He did as instructed, grinning up at me. “I did it!”

“Yes, you did! You’re such a good helper,” I praised, ruffling his soft blond hair.

We continued working together, Asher’s excitement growing with each task I gave him. He opened the jars of basil and thyme, carefully sniffing each one before handing them to me. When the pasta was finally boiling, I let him stir it, his small hand gripping the spoon with all his might.

“You’re doing such a great job, Asher,” I said, my heart swelling with love for my little boy.

I was about to add the tomatoes to the pan when the shrill ring of my phone cut through the warm, homely atmosphere. I glanced at the screen and saw an unknown number flashing.

“Hold on a second, sweetie,” I said to Asher. “Martha!” I called out.

Martha appeared at the kitchen door. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Could you please keep an eye on the pasta for a moment? I need to take this call.”

“Of course, ma’am,” she said, moving to the stove.

I walked out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on a dish towel. Asher continued to stir, under Martha’s watchful eye, still bursting with pride at his contribution.

I stepped into the living room and answered the phone, curiosity mingling with a hint of apprehension. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Alina Roosevelt?” a stern voice asked.

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Reynolds from the central prison.”

My heart skipped a beat. The central prison? Why would they be calling me? A dozen thoughts raced through my mind, none of them comforting.

“What is this about?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s about your father,” Officer Reynolds said.

My shoulders relaxed slightly as I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Of course, it had to be about my father and our non-existent relationship. 

“What about him?” I asked, my tone growing colder.

“He’s been requesting to see you. We’ve agreed to arrange a meeting, if you’re willing.”

A flood of memories washed over me: the hostility, the anger, the sense of betrayal. My father had been a hard man, and our relationship had been strained for as long as I could remember. His actions had left deep scars, and I had no desire to reopen old wounds.

“No,” I said firmly. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t want to see him.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Are you sure, Ms. Roosevelt? He’s been quite insistent.”

“I’m sure,” I replied, my voice hardening. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“Very well,” Officer Reynolds said. “We’ll inform him of your decision.”

“Thank you,” I said, ending the call.

I stood there for a moment, the phone still in my hand. The past had a way of sneaking up on you, even when you thought you had left it far behind. I took a deep breath, pushing the memories back where they belonged.

When I returned to the kitchen, Asher was still at the stove, stirring the pasta with Martha’s help. He looked up as I walked in, his face lighting up with a smile.

“Mama! I’m making pasta!”

“Yes, you are, my little chef,” I said, scooping him up into my arms and kissing his cheek. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

Asher giggled and wrapped his arms around my neck. “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, sweetie,” I whispered, holding him close.

I glanced at Martha, who gave me a reassuring smile. “The pasta’s almost done, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Martha,” I said, grateful for her presence and support.

I set Asher back on the counter and we finished making the pasta together. He sprinkled the oregano and basil into the sauce, and I showed him how to mix it all together. The simple act of cooking with him brought me back to the present, grounding me in the warmth and love of our home.

When we finally sat down to eat, Asher was bursting with pride. “I helped make this,” he declared to Martha, who joined us for lunch.

“And you did a wonderful job,” Martha said, smiling at him.

Asher beamed, and I couldn’t help but smile too. Despite the phone call, despite the memories it had stirred up, this moment was perfect.

As we ate, I found myself thinking about my father again. I had made my decision, and I had no regrets. Some bridges were better left burned, especially when crossing them would only bring more pain.

I looked at Asher, who was happily munching on his pasta, and knew that I had made the right choice. The past was behind me, and my future was right here.