Page 58 of Breakaway Daddies

Babicka stirs her stew with deliberate slowness, her silver spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. She pauses, lifts her wise eyes to meet mine.

“Then you wait until you can’t anymore. That is what love is, no? Risk.”

“But what if I’m wasting my time?” I feel a tightness in my throat as I push the spoon through the broth, the pieces of sausage and cabbage swirling aimlessly. The thought of Jinx leaving as if we were inconsequential gnaws at me, stealing my appetite. “She left like we didn’t matter.”

“Or maybe,” she suggests softly, her voice like a gentle balm, “she left because it mattered too much, too fast.”

I blink, caught off guard by her perspective, struggling to find words.

“You are old enough now,” she says, her hand resting on mine, her touch warm and reassuring, “to learn that some things take time. If you rush a stew, it has no flavor.”

I chuckle, tears brimming in my eyes. “You’re comparing my love life to soup?”

She grins, her smile a comforting anchor. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

I nod, sniffling as emotions swirl within me. “Yeah. It’s working.”

Uncertainty lingers about what the future holds with Jinx.

Maybe she’ll find her way back to me, maybe she won’t.

But right now, I allow myself to be held by her memory, the comforting heat of the stew, and the unwavering love of the woman who taught me not just resilience, but how to love fiercely.

Babicka dabs the corners of her lips with the embroidered cloth napkin, leans back in her worn, wooden chair, and fixes me with that familiar gaze. It’s the look that signals I’m about to hear a story, whether I asked for one or not.

“When I met your grandfather, I didn’t want to be married,” she begins, her eyes sparkling with the warmth of old memories. “I was working at that tiny shop on Cinder Street, you know the one, with the colorful scarves, delicate linens, and hand-painted bowls. We had just moved into town, hardly knew anyone. He would stroll in every week, acting as if he needed something for his mother. One week it was handkerchiefs, the next it was aprons. There was even a time he bought three candles, claiming they were for his sister’s birthday. He didn’t even have a sister.”

She chuckles softly, her spoon clinking gently against the edge of her blue-and-white ceramic bowl.

“He showed up every week for almost a year,” she continues. “He’d flash that charming smile, ask how my day was, and insist on carrying my baskets when I headed to catch the tram. And each time he asked me out for a coffee, I turned him down. Until one day, without quite knowing why, I said yes.”

“Why?” I ask, eager to understand.

“Because someone who waits for you that long and still gazes at you like you’re made of sunlight—how can you not give that person a chance?” she replies, lifting her cup of tea, the delicate china rattling gently against the saucer as she takes a sip. “If Jinx is your sunlight, Bruno…then wait for her. Just like your grandfather waited for me.”

Her words linger in the warm kitchen air, and a knot forms in my chest. Her tale unfolds beautifully, but there’s no mention of an unexpected pregnancy, no whisper of a life-altering secret.

The spoon clinks against the inside of my bowl as I stir the rich stew I have no appetite for. It feels deceitful just sitting here, nodding along as if this were merely a slow-burn romance, when in reality, the truth is a live grenade poised to explode.

I force a smile when expected, but inside, my thoughts tumble over one another like dominoes. My fingers tap nervously on my thigh, a restless rhythm.

Jinx is pregnant. I’m going to be a father. Or… one of us is. But deep down, a visceral certainty tells me it’s me. I feel it twisting in my gut, tightening in my chest.

“Scuza,” I murmur, my chair scraping the floor as I push back from the table. My voice, which comes out rough, betrays my inner turmoil. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

She dismisses me with a gentle wave, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches me retreat.

In the bathroom, I shut the door with a soft click, lean heavily against the sink, and grip its cool porcelain edges as if they might anchor me. The mirror reflects my wide, guilt-ridden eyes, and I hardly recognize myself.

I splash cold water on my face, droplets cascading down my cheeks, but the reflection remains unchanged—still just as terrified.

How do I tell her that her grandson has gotten a woman pregnant—a woman who might not even want him in her life?

When I return to the table, Babicka sits there, her delicate teacup balanced in her hand, eyes as sharp and steady as ever. She doesn’t say anything at first—just waits with a patience that feels heavier than words.

That silent expectation is somehow worse.

She places her teacup down on the saucer with a gentle clink and says, “What is it, Bru? I know that face. You wear it whenever you’re about to tell me something I won’t like.”

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