Page 28 of Grumpy Orc Daddy
Janta
Every morning, my resolve to demonstrate my commitment to Rayna and our daughter Lily strengthens. Despite Rayna's distant manner, I am more determined than ever to prove myself as the partner and father they need.
Each day, I look for new ways to deepen my involvement in the day-to-day tasks of parenting and maintaining our home—responsibilities I might have once overlooked. I load the dishwasher more often, pick up Lily’s toys that are strewn around the living room. Today, I even washed an entire load of Lily’s laundry and did not mess anything up or turn it a shade it’s not supposed to be.
I hear Lily waking up from the monitor on the counter. Hurriedly, I’m there to gently lift her from her crib, her tiny hands reaching out with a trust that reinforces my purpose.
“Good morning my girl,” I say as I kiss her dark hair. “Are you hungry?”
She makes a cooing sound of approval, and we make our way downstairs.
Rayna enters the kitchen not moments behind us, while I’m warming Lily’s oatmeal. Despite how hard I try to let her sleep in, it’s like she has an internal mother clock that lets her know exactly when Lily is up.
She strolls over to Lily, and kisses her on the nose. Lily’s eyes look up to her fondly.
“Good morning, would you like some breakfast?” I ask, trying to crack her icy demeanor.
“I’m okay, but thanks.” She says as she goes to the fridge, grabs a protein shake and sits down beside Lily’s highchair.
I try to connect by sharing updates about Lily’s day so far, from her new sound this morning to how she giggled when I dropped the milk earlier. Rayna just responds with a nod and a fleeting smile. I wrack my brain trying to figure out what I can do to get her to lower her walls she’s built back.
Tonight I decide to surprise her with a gesture that I hope will bridge the distance between us, even if just for the evening.
I sent Rayna out on a late-night errand for something Lily needed. I made sure to wear Lily out today when we played, so she would be willing to go to bed a little earlier. She fell asleep with ease, while I rocked her in her nursery humming theme songs to television shows I remember as a child. I’m still working on learning nursery rhymes, but Rome wasn’t built in a day you know.
I look out the window as the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow through the kitchen. I tie the apron around my waist and set out to prepare a special dinner just for the two of us.
I’m cooking Rayna’s favorite dish: rosemary chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. I remember the first time we had it—she made me watch her dutifully while she made it, saying I needed to practice on my cooking skills, because children can’t live off grilled cheese and macaroni; two things that I am excellent at making, might I add. That memory brings a smile to my face as I chop the herbs.
When everything is nearly ready, I set the table. I dim the lights and light the candles, transforming our usual dining area into a more intimate setting.
Just as I’m placing the final dish on the table, I hear the front door open. Rayna walks in, with a handful of bags, when she turns the corner her face transitions from weariness to surprise as she takes in the aroma and candlelit setting.
"Janta, did you do all this for us?" she asks, curiosity leaking into her voice.
"Yes," I reply, my heart kicking up. "Just a quiet dinner for us. I thought we could use some time to relax and just enjoy the evening together."
She looks around frantically. “Where is Lily?” she asks.
“The princess played extra hard with her daddy today, and I gave her a bath, read her the unicorn book, and she was out like a light,” I say with a smile.
Her eyes soften, scanning the effort laid out before her, and for a moment, it felt like the walls between us thinned. She smiles genuinely, and it was a smile I have missed profoundly.
We sit down, and as we begin to eat, I can see her relaxing, the tension easing from her shoulders.
I watch as Rayna takes a bite of her chicken, her eyes lighting up with approval, and I feel a swell of pride.
“Remember the first time you tried to teach me to cook?” I ask, a grin spreading across my face as the memory surfaces.
Rayan chuckles, nodding. “How could I forget? You tried to impress me by flipping the pancakes without a spatula, and it ended up on the ceiling. Then the kitchen almost burned down.”
We burst into laughter, the sound richer and more freeing than anything that has filled these walls in months. It’s these moments, these carefree exchanges, that remind me of the ease we once shared.
“I was so embarrassed,” I admit, still laughing. “I was sure you’d never want to step into a kitchen with me again.”
“More like angry,” she quips. “But I did, didn’t I? Just to see if you’d do it again,” she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
We talk, more freely than we have in weeks, about mundane things—work, the weather, a funny story from my day.