Page 86 of Single Mom's Daddies
“She’s perfect,” I say.
Her shoulders drop like someone finally let her set something heavy down. “Thank you.”
I don’t say you’re welcome. I just nod. It’s the eighth thank-you since this morning.
By the time dinner rolls around, Ivy is already more settled than I expected. She’s upstairs in pajamas, legs dangling from a stool at the oversized island in the kitchen, between Mila and Alex like she’s always belonged there. They’re building LEGO towers on the marble counter—structures that won’t survive the hour—but all three are focused like they’re designing cathedrals.
Saffron stands near the stove, barefoot, hair pulled back into a loose braid. She’s not cooking—Mrs. Popovich is sautéing something that smells like butter and sage—but she’s watching Ivy, arms folded across her chest, eyes soft in a way I haven’t seen before.
Saffron is still tense. She probably will be for a long time. But it’s different now. Not frantic. Not fighting for every second. She checks in with Ivy every few minutes, and I get the distinct impression that Ivy is both accustomed to and annoyed by her mother’s hovering.
Melanie sits in the corner with her tablet, inputting vitals and schedules, nodding occasionally when Ivy glances her way. She’s efficient but unobtrusive. I knew she’d be the right fit.
Mila leans toward Ivy and whispers something. Ivy laughs. The sound makes me stop where I am. I didn’t realize how rare it is to hear a child laugh without restraint until I heard her do it. I cross the kitchen and rest my hand on the counter near her juice box. “You having fun?”
Ivy looks up at me. “Mila says I get to be boss next time. She’s been boss all day.”
“Mm.” I nod solemnly. “She runs a tight regime.”
“She said if I learn Russian, I’ll get promoted faster.”
That earns a low chuckle from me. “Did she now?”
Mila nods. “That’s the rule, right, Daddy?”
“Right.” I pull a stool out beside her and sit. “Ivy, do you want to learn a phrase?”
Her eyes go wide. “Yes, please.”
I glance at Saffron, who gives me a small nod. I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “Privet, krasotka. That means, ‘Hello, beautiful.’ Want to try it?”
She repeats it with care, stumbling over the consonants but smiling through it.
“Perfect,” I say. “Next one.Spasibo.”
“Spah…see…bo?”
“Good. That means thank you.”
She grins. “Spasibo.”
I hold up a hand for a high-five, and she slaps it with a giggle.
“Can I say something else?” she asks. “Like…what Mila says to you?”
My smile falters for a half second. “What’s that?”
“She calls you Daddy.” Ivy shifts nervously. “Can I call you that too? If it’s okay?”
My heart stutters. I wasn’t quite sure if she understood who we are to her until this moment. When did Saffron tell her? Not that it matters, I suppose. I’m unsure if this is what her mother wants, so I turn to her.
Saffron’s smile is sublime and relaxed. She gives a slight nod.
I pause. Just a beat. Long enough to swallow the burn in my throat. “You can call me whatever you like. As long as your mom says it’s okay.”
Ivy beams. “Okay, Daddy.”
It nearly knocks the breath out of me. But I nod like it’s nothing. Because that’s what fathers do. Steady in a storm, even if that storm is only on the inside.
