The boy was talking a mile a minute, telling me how Poppy made bread. How she ground her own flour and canned the veggies she grew.
It was odd. I grew up in the Old World where we did those things for survival and because we didn’t have the luxury of grocery stores and the modern ability to just purchase what weneeded. Yet Poppy chose to raise my son that way, not because she didn’t have a store, but because she thought it was better.
I looked at the cereal. A distant memory played, the first time I walked through a superstore after coming to the USA, how I marveled at the abundance.
Buying commodities seemed like blessing of success.
And yet this child was telling me how the ways I’d grown up, the ways I’d run from, were actually better.
Fuck, I’m going to need a drink.That was too heavy to process right now.
Down the hall, the bedroom door banged open. Poppy rushed out, the child’s name a gasp on her lips.
“Look, Mama, I ate all my eggs!” the boy beamed, holding up the plate.
Yellow crumbs fell on the floor. I wouldn’t have noticed before, because there’d been at least a week’s worth of crumbs. But now they were the only things noticeable.
Poppy’s shoulders relaxed, but there was still caution in her eyes as she shifted a glance between us at the table.
“Did you thank Mr. Ivan?” she nudged.
“Oh, thank you, tatko!” The boy smiled and jumped down to take his plate and fork to the sink. “Want me to wash them, Mama?”
“No, I’ll get them,” she said absently, drawing her arms over her chest.
It did nothing to help. The cotton tank and shorts left little to the imagination.
My son skipped to his room. “I’m going to change and then go check out the backyard.”
“Okay.” Poppy yawned.
Her body looked soft, and I bet anything it was warm. I wanted to scoop her into my arms, haul her to my bed, and tuck her in beside me. We didn’t have to do anything else. Just…sleep.
“Here.” I pulled out my wallet and threw a couple hundred-dollar bills on the table. “You can go shopping for anything you need. Food he likes, whatever you want.”
Poppy looked at the money, then back up at me. “I can pay.”
“He’s my responsibility.” I rose and gave her a hard look. “I pay.”
Poppy tipped her chin up. “No, he’s my responsibility, and I won’t be relieved of the burden.”
Crossing the room, I crowded her against the pantry. Those brown eyes widened. I braced an arm over her head, careful not to touch her. The scent of vanilla and berries, too sweet and tempting, made my dick twitch.
“I’m going outside,” my boy called.
“Be right there, son,” I called out.
“Okay, tatko!”
The door shut.
“From the sounds of it, you like to live a certain way. We’re in the city, and that will cost you to find the same foods he’s used to. I don’t want him having an existential crisis every fucking morning over food. Buy what you need.” I shoved the money at her.
She kept her arms crossed. The paper bills fell to the floor. “I’m wellawareof where we are. And side note, I have my own damn money! Lots of it.”
Irritation clawed up my spine. I loomed over her. “I do too.”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” Poppy pointed her finger and shoved it in my chest. “We are not doing this. We’re not fighting where Brady can see.”
