I never saw it coming. One minute, I was driving my daughter home from preschool, listening to her chatter about tea parties and chocolate. The next, she dropped a bombshell: “Can my real dad come for Father’s Day dinner?”
My blood ran cold.
Lily is my whole world—a bright, creative little girl who thinks the moon follows us home because it’s lonely. So when she told me a man had been visiting her while I was at work—a man she called “Daddy”—I had to act fast.
I played it cool, suggesting we surprise him. But inside, I was falling apart.
When Father’s Day arrived, I set the stage. I cooked a fancy meal, lit candles, and waited. Then came the knock at the door—Adam, my best friend since college, looking like he’d seen a ghost. Jessica’s horrified expression said it all.
Dinner was tense. Lily, oblivious, happily announced, “Adam’s my daddy!” The silence that followed was deafening.
I kicked them out that night. The next morning, I filed for divorce.
Later, Lily whispered, “I don’t want to play that game anymore.” I hugged her and promised, “We won’t.” Because no matter what, she’s my daughter.
