Page 55 of Single Mom's Daddies
The ride home is too quiet. The gravel crunches under the tires as I pull into the estate. Everything looks the same—painted shutters, fresh flowers, lights glowing soft against the front facade.
I park. Sit in the car for a full minute, both hands on the steering wheel. It’s tempting to have a good cry before going inside. But then my phone buzzes.
Roman.Dinner’s at seven.
I’ll be there.
He sends the same message every day. As though I’ve forgotten when dinner is. Or, maybe he wants me to know I’m always welcome. I’m not sure which it is with him. Probably the latter.
I’ve felt welcome since the moment I arrived on the property, but after the other day…the four of us in Nikolai’s giant bed…the place feels like home. I redecorated my cottage with my things. I know the ebb and flow of the place. It feels like mine in the strangest way. Like I belong here.
And now I know that, at the bare minimum, Ivy absolutely does.
I climb out of the car and walk up the steps slowly, as if they might shift beneath my feet. I clean up to get the hospital air off of me and dress for dinner. Most nights, they try to make it a proper affair, meaning business casual for all. Even the kids.
Tonight, dinner feels like a dream. One of those fevered, too-bright dreams where everything moves half a beat out of sync.
The lights in the dining room are warm. The food smells incredible—grilled chicken, lemon roasted potatoes, some kind of parsley sauce Victor won’t admit to making but clearly did. He keeps asking if I like it. Roman’s already seated. Nikolai lingers near the wall.
The kids are in high spirits. Mila’s wearing her butterfly wings from playtime and insists she can’t take them off or her imagination might fall out. They don’t suit her suit—it’s brown like her hair. But she doesn’t appear to care, and neither do her fathers.
Alex keeps trying to sit on his knees to “see better.” His blue suit looks like it might swallow him whole, but all of them do. According to Roman, he cannot stand to be bound up in his clothes, so they accommodate his needs while also keeping their standards high.
I serve them first. Smile. Pour milk. Pass plates. I feel the men’s eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. For what, I’m not sure.
“You haven’t touched your wine,” Victor notes. Not just an observation. A mild accusation.
“Not especially thirsty tonight.”
A subtle smirk spreads his lips. “You don’t drink it to slake your thirst.”
I quickly gulp some down. “Happy?”
“Not especially.”
Eyes. Still on me. They know something’s off. They’re sharp enough to catch a shift in air pressure. But they say nothing.
And neither do I. Because once I start talking, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. I pretend to eat. Swallow once. Push food around my plate until it looks less suspicious.
Mila drops a piece of broccoli. Alex feeds it to the imaginary cat. I laugh at the right moments. I smile. I try.
God, I try.
I help Mrs. Popovich clean up as usual, load the dishwasher, wipe the counters. The kids beg for a story in the den. I read two. They ask for three. I give them four.
Anything to delay having a moment alone with the brothers. Anything to put off the inevitable. But I can’t avoid it forever. Not in this house.
Bedtime comes with toothpaste fights and misplaced pajamas. Mila insists her pillow has moved and someone’s been stealing her dreams. So, I rig the butterfly wings over her bed from her pink chandelier. “If they’ll protect your imagination from falling out, surely they’ll protect your dreams. Dreams come from your imagination, you know.”
She grins, and it steals my breath. So much like Ivy. How did I not see it before? I can’t stop seeing it now.
Alex asks for four goodnight kisses because he’s six, and there’s two of them, and evidently, that’s how math works. Before I finish up, he grabs my hand. “Saffron, are you tired too?”
I swallow. Somehow, his tiny, sleepy voice asking about my well-being breaks my heart. “Very tired.”
“Who tucks you in?”
“I do.”
