Page 59 of Breakaway Daddies

Her voice is calm, yet the familiarity of her words tightens the knot in my stomach. My throat feels parched, and I find myself staring at the intricate patterns in the old wood grain of the floor before mustering the courage to meet her gaze.

Her eyes are so kind, yet so damn knowing.

I lower myself into the chair, my hands resting on my knees like a child seeking comfort. The words tumble out of my mouth. “Jinx is pregnant.”

My voice is soft, but it feels like the confession echoes in the room. The air thickens, as if the entire kitchen just inhaled sharply and forgot to exhale.

Her brows arch slightly, but her expression remains composed. She holds the silence for a moment too long, an unspoken weight that hits me in the gut.

“I don’t know for sure if it’s mine,” I rush to add, feeling a desperation to fill the quiet. “But… I think it is. And even if it’s not, I want to be there. For her. For the baby.” My words hang in the air like fragile promises.

Babicka doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, she reaches across the table and wraps her warm, steady hand around mine.

“Bruno,” she says softly, her voice a gentle balm, “I raised you to be strong. But also to be good. If you love her and that baby, then what’s left to be afraid of?”

I nod, my eyes stinging with emotion, and squeeze her fingers as if they’re the only tether keeping me from drifting away.

Babicka’s hand holds mine with a firm, comforting grip, her thumb gently tracing circles over my knuckles. There’s a serene wisdom in her touch, as if she wears her patience like a suit of armor.

She gives me a reassuring nod and says, “I knew when she was here. I could tell.”

I stare at her, surprised. “You… could tell?”

She flashes a sly, self-satisfied grin. “Bruno, I’ve been around a long time. A woman knows. It was in the way she cradled her stomach absentmindedly, the weariness etched into her eyes. You think I wouldn’t recognize morning sickness when I’ve experienced it myself?”

I let out a groan, burying my face in my hand. “She didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell any of us. Just dropped the news on us casually, like it was an item on a grocery list.”

She hums softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, allowing me to indulge in my dramatics before she inevitably brings me back down to earth.

“I’m serious,” I mumble. “I should be mad. You didn’t tell me either.”

She gives me that look—the one with the raised eyebrow and the slight press of her lips.

“That,” she says, patting my arm twice with a knowing touch, “was part of you learning patience.”

I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Feels more like getting punished for not being psychic.”

“You’ll live,” she replies, a twinkle in her eye.

I stand up and begin pacing in the cozy kitchen, the worn floorboards creaking beneath my heavy boots, a sound that somehow keeps me tethered to reality.

“I’m furious, Babicka,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “She waits until she’s practically out the door to drop a bombshell like that? I don’t care if she’s scared; she made me care about her, and then she vanishes as if we mean nothing.”

She watches me with her wise eyes, arms crossed, a faded tea towel draped over her shoulder as if it belongs there.

“She made me fall in love with her,” I continue, gesturing wildly, “and then acted like it was all just a game. Like she never intended to let us be part of her world.”

My grandma listens patiently, letting me pour out my frustration before she speaks with her familiar steeliness.

“Did you ever consider that she didn’t plan any of this, either? She’s pregnant, Bruno,” she says, her voice steady. “She probably doesn’t know how it happened or what she wants to do about it, let alone how to process your feelings in all of this.”

I pause in my pacing, the anger simmering inside me feeling suddenly more like confusion. “Still, she didn’t have to deceive us.”

“She didn’t lie,” she counters, shaking her head. “She just wasn’t ready. And you’re not helping by throwing a tantrum like a child who dropped his ice cream cone.”

I let out a long, weary breath, my shoulders slumping as the tension seeps from them. “So what do I do? Just sit around and wait? Again?”

“Yes,” she replies with a firmness that brooks no argument. “But this time, wait with kindness, not anger. She’ll notice, and it might just make all the difference.”

---