Page 53 of Single Mom's Daddies
That’s okay. It does.
13
SAFFRON
I findthe photo by accident.
It’s not in a frame, or an album, or anything that would mark it as important. It’s tucked behind a stack of printer paper in the built-in shelving next to the pantry, stuffed between a few coloring sheets and an old pencil case with one working zipper.
I’m looking for a pack of markers for the kids. What I find is the reason I can’t breathe.
At first, it’s the school crest that stops me—St. Carthan, printed in foil-pressed ink across the top. I slide the photo out slowly and see a grinning Nikolai in cap and gown, his arms over his older brother’s shoulders.
I forget how to breathe. They’re younger, but it’s them. His tassel has the year after Ivy was conceived in it. By the time he graduated, I was seven months pregnant.
“Happy senior year, little brother.” That voice…I’d locked it away in my memory, but now and then, it showed up. Mostly in quiet moments like this one. But that was Roman. The gravel, the cheekiness. Him.
I stare at the corner of the photo. I feel the blood drain from my face. I press the photo flat to the countertop, try to steady my breath, and count backward from ten. It doesn’t help.
Because I know. It was them. Roman. Victor. Nikolai. They’re Ivy’s fathers.
My knees go weak. I back into the pantry wall and sit on the floor, the photo still clutched in my hands. My fingers are curled tight around the edges like I’m afraid it’ll vanish if I blink. But it doesn’t. It stays. Solid. Heavy.
I always knew there was a possibility of it being them. But this? Knowing? It’s not a theory anymore. It’s a fact. I don’t shy away from facts. Never have before.
But I want to now.
The drawer beside me is still open. There’s an old roll of masking tape balanced inside. Mila wanted the metallic markers to draw wings on her paper butterfly. She said it needed sparkle.
The photo’s still warm from my hands.
I tuck it into my pocket, slide the folder deeper into the shelf, and shut the drawer softly, as if the sound might set off a bomb.
Because maybe it has. They don’t know.Ididn’t know. Until now. I wrap my arms around my knees, curl in on myself, and sit on the floor until I can stop shaking.
It takes too long. The kids are already at the table when I make it back to the kitchen.
Alex is chewing the crust off his toast and saving the rest “for dessert.” Mila’s adding sugar cubes to her orange juice. “Did you find the markers?” she asks, not looking up.
“Not yet,” I say. My voice sounds like it came from someone else. I pour juice. I toast new bread. I pretend I’m fine.
I’m not fine. Not even close. I can’t stop thinking about that night—the Halloween party, the one with the masks, the three men I let touch me like they already owned me.
They did. Theydo. The pieces snap into place like they’ve been waiting all this time. The ink. The piercings. The way Nikolai kissed me like he’d done it before. The way Victor touches my waist when no one’s looking. The way Roman stares too long when I talk about Ivy.
And Ivy… My throat closes. She looks like she could be Mila’s sister. Not identically—Ivy’s brown eyes are more like Nikolai’s than Mila’s blue eyes—but same lips, same jaw, same brow. Why didn’t I see it?
Because I didn’t want to. I couldn’t afford to.
Because remembering would have meant facing the fact that I brought a child into the world without knowing the men who made her. That I let her grow up without a name on her birth certificate. I convinced myself that ignorance was safety.
I get the kids settled at the table and step into the hallway. The photo’s still in my pocket. Burning.
Lunch is peanut butter and jelly cut into triangles because rectangles are “not as tasty.” Mila dips hers in yogurt. Alex eats the crusts first this time. Evidently, crust eating is a varied art. I nod and laugh in all the right places. I ask about their coloring pages. I make them practice folding their napkins into fans.
Roman passes through and nods to me. I nod back. My stomach twists.
Ivy is theirs.
