Which is universal parent-speak for “probably not, but I don’t want to crush your dreams at the dinner table.”
Her face falls slightly, but she’s fast to recover and goes back to eating her spaghetti. But now Grant is shooting me a questioning look, and I don’t have a good answer. Not one I can say out loud, anyway.
Thankfully, the conversation moves on, and Grant and April fall back into their hockey discussion. She tells him about a highlight reel she watched online, complete with dramatic reenactments using her fork as a hockey stick, and he listens with the kind of patience most adults don’t have for nine-year-old enthusiasm.
“And then the goalie—not you, obviously, because you would never let this happen—but this other goalie just completely whiffed on what should have been an easy save.”
Grant actually laughs at that. Not just a polite chuckle, but a real, genuine laugh that makes the hard lines around his eyessoften and his mouth curve up in a way that makes him look years younger.
For a few moments, he doesn’t look anything like the stern, intimidating hockey star who commands respect and fear from opposing teams. Instead, he looks like a man who can find joy in simple things. A man who genuinely enjoys my daughter’s company and all her enthusiasm.
That smile makes my heart flutter and beat faster in a way that I absolutely can’t afford right now.
I have to stop. The last thing I need is to read into things that aren’t there.
This is exactly what I was worried about—not just April getting attached, but me doing the same thing. Because that flutter in my chest when he smiles, that warm feeling I get when he looks at me with those midnight-blue eyes, and that sense of rightness when the three of us are sitting around this table like some kind of family—none of that is real.
I’m a single mom who needed a hand, and he’s a man who was kind enough to provide it. That’s all this is, and that’s all it can ever be.
I’ve seen the women who wait for him after games. The puck bunnies. The gorgeous women in designer clothes and perfect makeup who have no shame in the way they flirt and throw themselves at every player on the team.
Those women don’t come with the kind of baggage I have. They don’t come with a kid and a history of making terrible relationship choices. They haven’t spent years rebuilding their lives from nothing, and they don’t have ugly scars on their arms or the constant, nagging anxiety about whether they’re good mothers.
Grant can have any woman he wants. The idea that he’d be genuinely interested in someone like me is almost laughable. I’mjust an ordinary woman with ordinary struggles about paying bills and screwing up her kid’s life.
The blunt truth that he’s way too nice to ever say out loud is that I’m a charity case for him. A temporary guest in his house. Someone he took pity on because that’s the kind of decent man he is, not because there’s anything special about me that caught his attention.
The sooner I remember that, the better off we’ll all be.
That thought stays with me through the rest of dinner, even while April and Grant pick back up with their discussion about penalty shots and power play strategies.
He insists on loading the dishwasher himself, but I help clear the dishes and rinse them while April bounces around the kitchen talking about her favorite plays from last night’s game.
By the time we head upstairs for homework and April’s bedtime routine, I’ve managed to reinforce some of the emotional walls that had started to feel a little weak during dinner. This is what I’m good at doing—compartmentalizing, focusing on what needs to be done, and shrugging off feelings that aren’t productive or safe.
April and I settle into her room with her math worksheet spread across the bed. She’s in a much better mood than she was this afternoon when she first got home from school, and she breezes through her homework with the same kind of enthusiasm and positive attitude she’s had all night.
“I keep thinking about what Grant said,” she tells me while we work through the last few equations. “About how nobody else gets to decide how I feel about myself.”
I nod. “That was really good advice. How does it make you feel?”
Her brow furrows, and she doesn’t say anything for several seconds. When she does speak, her tone is quiet and thoughtful,and it’s easy to see that she has been seriously reflecting on her earlier conversation with Grant.
“I feel like maybe it’s okay that some of the other kids at school didn’t immediately want to be my friends. I might have to work a little harder to show them who I am and why they’re missing out, but I think that says more about them than it does about me. Does that make sense?”
I hate that my baby is going through this. I also hate that she isn’t a baby anymore and I can’t shield her from all the ugliness in the world. She’s growing up so quickly and learning to fight her own battles, but she’s also learning her worth, and that isn’t a bad thing.
“That makes perfect sense, sweetheart.” My heart is so full of pride and love for her, this little piece of me who is already so much smarter and braver than I was at her age.
After homework comes bath time, then our nightly chapter from the book we’ve been reading together. It’s a tradition we’ve maintained through every bump in the road and change in our lives, and I’ve come to cherish this quiet time together before bed, when the two of us can get lost together in someone else’s world.
“Thanks for reading to me.” Her voice is small and sleepy as I close the book. “And thanks for letting us stay here with Grant. I know it’s not forever, but I really like it here.”
“I’m glad.” I press a kiss to her forehead and add, mostly to myself, “I do too.”
I turn off her bedside lamp and sit for a few minutes in the darkness, listening to her breathing slowly even out.
This is what I’ve done it all for. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every moment of doubt and fear and frustration has all been for her. To make sure she grows up safe, loved, and confident in who she is.
