I climb the stairs to her second-floor apartment and knock softly, not wanting to startle her but knowing she’s probably expecting this visit after our conversation last night.
She opens the door wearing jeans and a soft sweater that emphasizes her natural beauty in ways her work uniform never could. There’s wariness in her expression, but not surprise. “Radmir.” She steps back to let me in. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“I brought dinner.” I hold up the bags of food, noting how her apartment smells like home in ways my estate never has. “I hope Italian is all right.”
“You probably remember Leo loves spaghetti.” She closes the door behind me and takes one of the bags. “I’ll grab plates and set the table. Leo? Mr. Radmir is here with dinner,” she calls. “Pasta.”
The sound of running feet precedes Leo’s appearance around the corner, his face lighting up when he sees me. “Mr. Radmir, did you bring the kind of pasta with the really long noodles?”
“I brought three different kinds, just to be safe.” I crouch down to his level, struck again by how much he resembles me at that age. It makes me think of the way Danielle stared at the family photo in my hallway. She must have been noting the resemblance too. “How was your day? Did you find any caterpillars?”
“We didn’t go to the park because Mama was tired, but I practiced writing my letters, and I drew you a picture.” He runs to the coffee table and retrieves a piece of construction papercovered in crayon marks. “See? It’s you and me and Mama eating pizza. I didn’t know how to spell Radmir, but I ‘membered how to spell Vetrov like you showed me.”
The drawing shows three stick figures sitting at a table, with the tallest one labeled “Mr. Vetrov” in careful preschool handwriting. The innocent inclusion of me in his family portrait makes my chest constrict. I have to cough before I can speak. “This is incredible, Leo. You’re a very talented artist.” I study the picture with the seriousness it deserves. “Can I keep this?”
“Really? You want to keep my drawing?”
“I’d be honored to keep it. I’ll put it somewhere special so I can look at it every day.” His delighted smile makes the complicated emotions of this situation worth navigating.
Dinner passes peacefully, with Leo entertaining us with stories about his day and questions about everything from dinosaurs to why grown-ups drink coffee. I find myself relaxing into the domestic routine in ways I never expected, enjoying the chaos of a three-year-old’s mealtime commentary.
“Can Mr. Radmir read me a story tonight?” he asks as Danielle clears the table. “He has a really nice voice for reading.”
I look at Danielle, who hesitates for just a moment before nodding. “If Mr. Radmir has time, that would be nice.”
“I have time.”
“Bath first.”
He groans at Danielle’s reminder but nods. While she helps him with that stage, I finish filling the dishwasher before looking around the living room. The photos on the wall are almost all of Leo, though other people appear in them too. I recognizeCarmen and Danielle, of course, and assume the older woman pictured is her aunt, Molly. I’m gratified not to see a strange man in any of them.
When he explodes from the bathroom in spaceship pajamas twenty minutes later, he rushes to me. “I’m ready for my story.”
“So am I.” Following him to his small but neatly decorated bedroom, I help Leo choose a book from his collection, settling into the chair beside his bed while he arranges his stuffed animals as an audience.
The bedtime story is about a brownie helping a shoe cobbler, and Leo listens with rapt attention, occasionally commenting. When I finish reading, he hugs me with casual affection. “Thank you for reading to me. You do voices even better than Mama does.”
“I heard that,” Danielle calls from the doorway, but she’s smiling.
“It’s okay, Mama. You’re still the best at making pancakes.”
“I have no doubt,” I say quickly. “I’ve never made pancakes before.”
I tuck him in and turn on his dinosaur nightlight, following Danielle back to the living room where we settle into an awkward silence. I came here with questions about her clinic visit and plans to discuss custody arrangements, but sitting in her cozy apartment after reading to our son, those conversations feel less urgent.
“Thank you for letting me stay for dinner.” I gather my jacket from the chair where I’d left it. “And for letting me read to him.”
She looks surprised. “You’re leaving? I thought you’d want to talk about...arrangements.”
“We’ll figure out the details eventually.” I pause at the door, studying her face. “Tonight was about spending time with Leo, not negotiating terms. He needs to get comfortable with me being around before we worry about schedules and logistics.”
“Oh.” She wraps her arms around herself, and I notice again how careful she is about the way she moves. “I wasn’t expecting...”
“What were you expecting?”
“Demands. Ultimatums. Legal threats.” She meets my eyes. “Not someone who reads bedtime stories and asks about his drawings.”
The admission reveals how little she understands about what I want from this situation. “I’m not interested in being the kind of father who shows up with lawyers and court orders. I want Leo to want me in his life, not resent me for forcing my way into it.”
