Page 38 of Single Mom's Daddies
“Like goo?” Alex asks, blinking.
“No, like a butterfly,” she says, matter-of-fact. “He looks all hard on the outside, but inside he’s all mush.”
I grin. “You think so?” Daddy is Roman. Dad is Victor. Pops is Nikolai. It’s an oddity to keep it straight, but I’m trying.
“Daddy pretends not to care, but he brought me a blanket when I was cold and pretended it was already on the couch.”
“And he let me stay up late,” Alex adds.
I chuckle. “Well. That settles it. He’s a softy. Excellent work, you two.”
They both nod like the theory’s now officially science. But it sits in my head longer than it should.
Romandoescare. About the kids. About me, in his own way. About Ivy. He didn’t have to offer to pay for her surgery. He doesn’t have to check in on her, or make sure I have everything I need. But he did. He does. And he’s never made it feel like a favor. Like charity.
Just like…this is what peopledowhen someone’s hurting.
It’s not what I expected from a man in his position. It’s not what I expected from any of them. None of it is.
“Breakfast is ready!” Mrs. Popovich calls from the patio.
Mila jumps up. “Race you!”
“No running!” I call after them, but they’re already halfway across the lawn, legs flying, arms pumping. I stand slowly, brushing dirt from my knees. The sun’s warm on my back. My hair’s starting to frizz in the late summer humidity. Heat waves like this make me want to shave my head. Somewhere behind me, a sprinkler kicks on with a soft, rhythmic hiss.
Mrs. Popovich waits at the edge of the steps. Her white hair is in a tight, perfect bun, like always, and she’s wearing a sleeveless dress with big sunflowers printed across it.
“You made it,” she says.
“Ialwaysmake it,” I reply.
She squints at me. “You were yawning like a drunk cat an hour ago. I made you coffee.”
I blink. “You…what?”
“It’s hot. Go pour yourself a cup before the children drink it all.”
“I didn’t realize the kids were allowed coffee.”
“They’re not,” she says, smirking. “But that’s never stopped them.”
I laugh and follow her inside.
The kitchen is cooler than outside, but it still smells like summer—ripe tomatoes, basil, something buttery toasting in a skillet. A pile of bacon and sausage is stacked on a tray. The kids have already dug into their eggs and toast, munching at the table.
A tiny dish of pickles sits on the side. The coffee’s in a ceramic mug, white with tiny painted lemons along the rim. When Mrs. Popovich toddles into the kitchen, I ask, “You made this for me?”
“Who else would it be for?” she says. “The children would revolt if I gave them pickles.”
“Ew!” Alex says, mouthful of toasted bread.
Mila yanks his plate away. “No talking with your mouth full.”
He sticks his tongue out, before snatching his plate back.
I sit down and take a bite. The toast is perfect—crispy edges, buttery center. I can understand why Alex didn’t slow down to speak properly. The coffee’s dark and strong, just the way I like it. The pickles? Homemade and perfect.
Mrs. Popovich hums as she moves around the kitchen, straightening things that don’t need straightening. “You’ve got a good way with them.”
