Page 43 of Breakaway Daddies

The space exudes warmth and nostalgia, with crocheted blankets draped lovingly over the furniture and old family photos in mismatched frames adorning the walls.

One particular photograph catches my eye—an image of a young Bruno, perhaps ten years old, clutching a hockey stick that towers over him, standing beside his grandfather. Both are beaming with joy, their smiles frozen in time.

From the bathroom, I hear the low murmur of voices, Bruno’s grumbling mingling with his grandmother’s gentle yet persistent scolding about his infrequent visits. I can’t help but smile, recognizing the familiar dynamic.

He’s definitely a mama’s boy, or grandma’s boy, rather.

A few minutes later, his grandmother emerges, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron with a satisfied nod. “Come help me make tea,” she instructs.

I follow her into the small, cluttered kitchen, where she begins to gather mugs and a tin of loose-leaf tea from the cupboard. The soothing scent of chamomile fills the air as she measures the tea leaves with a practiced hand.

“You take care of him?” she asks, her sharp eyes flicking to me with curiosity and concern.

Caught off guard, I blink and stammer, “Bruno?”

She nods, her movements precise and deliberate as she adds the tea leaves to the steaming pot. “He needs someone to keep him grounded. He has a gentleman’s heart, but he doesn’t trust easy.”

I chew my lip, wrestling with her words, unsure of how to respond. Finally, I manage to say, “I’m trying.”

Her eyes beam, and she gives me a knowing look, her hand reaching out to pat mine gently.

“Good,” she says simply, a warm smile playing on her lips. “He needs that. He needs a good woman like you.”

I smile, a little, feeling my cheeks redden at her words.

Bruno’s grandmother moves around the kitchen with the grace of someone who has spent a lifetime mastering the space.

“When Bruno was eight, he stumbled upon a stray puppy by the roadside,” she says, and her voice is soothing. “The poor thing was barely clinging to life, its little body shivering and caked in layers of mud. Everyone said it was a lost cause, that it wouldn’t survive the night, but Bruno refused to listen. He spent hours feeding it with an eyedropper, his small hands cradling it gently, and stayed up all night, whispering words of comfort as he kept it swaddled in blankets like a newborn.”

I glance toward the hallway, where I can hear the clanking of tools and the sound of Bruno’s low hum as he wrestles with the stubborn sink. “That sounds just like him,” I admit, imagining the determination etched on his face.

She chuckles, a light, knowing laugh that echoes through the room. “Oh, he’s as stubborn as a mule. But his heart?” She places a hand over her chest. “It’s as big as they come. He puts on a tough exterior, but he feels everything so deeply. He’d rather suffer in silence than let anyone see his vulnerability.”

Her words awaken a warmth in my chest, stirring emotions I can’t quite name. I take a sip of the fragrant tea, feeling its warmth spread through me, unsure of how to express the feelings her story has evoked.

A few minutes later, she returns to the kitchen with a small plastic bag filled with dried leaves that rustle as she hands it to me.

“This will help with the morning sickness,” she says casually, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glance that seems to delve past my façade.

I freeze mid-sip, my fingers clenching the warm ceramic mug as if it could anchor me, while a knot tightens in my stomach. The herbal aroma wafts up, mingling with the smell of freshly brewed tea, but I can’t focus on anything except the pounding in my chest.

I don’t ask how she knows. Maybe it’s just that grandmother’s intuition thing, or perhaps my subtle hints weren’t as subtle as I believed. Her knowing gaze seems to peel back the layers of my carefully constructed composure.

Still, my lungs feel constricted, each breath a struggle. I can’t confirm it with her yet, not before I gather the courage to tell the boys. And how can I tell her when uncertainty hangs over me, when I don’t even know if Bruno is the father?

Summoning every ounce of calm, I force a small smile. “Thank you,” I manage.

She winks at me, her expression one of conspiratorial understanding, as though we’ve entered into a silent pact. I nod, pretending my whole body isn’t alive with a storm of nerves.

For the rest of the evening, we both pretend the earlier conversation never happened. Bruno eventually joins us, settling beside me on the couch, his arm casually draping over my shoulders and pulling me into his warmth as we watch a crime drama unfolding on the TV screen. The flickering lights from the screen create a simple, domestic scene that feels unexpectedly comforting.

As the night winds down, his grandmother rises and approaches me, her arms opening wide. She hugs me tightly, her embrace warm and reassuring, whispering something in Slovak that I don’t understand.

But the gentle emotion in her voice is unmistakable—she approves of me, she wants me here.

By the time we return to the house, my mind feels like a tangled mess of thoughts. The image of the baby keeps flashing before me, the boys’ laughter echoes in my ears, and uncertainty about what my role should be gnaws at me.

It all feels overwhelming, like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice about to crumble.

---