Page 62 of Single Mom's Daddies
Nik doesn’t speak. But he nods.
No one says it, but we all feel it. Something just changed in the foundation of our lives. And we don’t know what it’s going to look like yet.
I stand again, moving for the door.
Roman glances at me. “You okay?”
“Just need a minute.”
He nods once. Nikolai doesn’t even look up. He’s already sunk deep into thought, the way he gets when something’s lodged in his chest and he doesn’t know how to shake it loose. I step into the hallway, make my way down the back corridor, and pause at the mudroom.
The window there has the clearest view of the back yard. The trees are still. No wind tonight. The moon is low, casting pale light across the grass.
I think about Ivy out there in a hospital bed, with wires and monitors and machines doing the job her heart can’t fully handle. I think about her small fingers. Her voice. Her eyes. I don’t know any of them.
Not yet. But I will. I promise myself that. Iwill.
I don’t know how long I stand by that window. Could be minutes. Could be longer. My reflection stares back at me in the glass—hair mussed from my fingers running through it, jaw tight, expression hollow. I look like a man trying to hold still while his life rearranges itself around him.
And maybe I am.
I close my eyes and breathe deep. The smell of woodsmoke lingers on my sweater. The faintest trace of pine cleaner on my hands. The kind of domestic scents that shouldn’t feel surreal after all these years.
But they do.
Because now we’re not just three men raising two children in a fortress of secrets. Now we’re four parents.
And Ivy is ours. We have another child. The words keep hitting me from different angles, like I’m discovering it all over again every few minutes.
Another reason to stay alive. To fight. To keep the peace.
I press my hand flat to the glass and lean my forehead there, letting the cool pane chase some of the heat out of my face. Wemissedeverything.I think about her first words. Her first laugh. Her first favorite color. Her first picture drawn with crayon on the wall.
We missed bedtime stories and teeth falling out and Band-Aids on scraped knees. We weren’t there. But we can be now. Ifwedon’t fuck this up. Because we’re good at that—taking things too far, too fast, too hard. But this can’t be one of those times.
I turn from the window and head back down the hall.
Roman’s still in the den. He’s poured himself a drink and settled into the wingback chair like it’s holding him up. Nikolai’s lying on the rug in front of the fire, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it just confessed something terrible to him. Neither of them speaks when I walk in.
I grab the second armchair, sink into it, and scrub a hand over my face. “I keep thinking about Mila and Alex.”
Roman nods slowly. “They’re going to have questions. They always have questions.”
“They’re going to have a sister.”
“They already do.”
“Exactly.”
Nikolai doesn’t move, but I see his mouth twitch.
“They’re resilient,” I say. “Kids always are.”
“It’s adults who fuck it up,” Roman mutters. He’s not wrong.
I think of Mila—brave, stubborn, smart beyond her years. Alex—gentle, curious, always trailing behind her like her loyal shadow. They’ll adjust.
It’s us I’m worried about. “I don’t want to lose any more time.”
