From the moment Lily said it, my world tilted. We were crawling home through traffic after daycare, the radio low, when she piped up from the back seat, “Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Father’s Day?”
I laughed, nervously, forcing a sound that didn’t reach my chest. “What do you mean, baby?” I asked, gripping the wheel tighter.
She swung her legs, five years old and unbothered by the tension she’d just dropped in my lap. She explained simply: a man came by sometimes when I was at work. He brought chocolate. Sat with Mommy. Told her he was her “real daddy.”
My heart slammed. I kept my voice steady, told her she might be confused. But she shook her head. “No, Daddy. He said it. And Mommy knows him.”
I barely slept that night. The words replayed like a loop in my mind. Children imagine things—but Lily didn’t. She was honest, precise, stubbornly truthful. And the heavier the thought, the more I realized this wasn’t a mistake.
By morning, I knew I needed answers. But confronting my wife without proof could explode everything. So I played it calm, terrifyingly calm. I turned Lily’s revelation into a game.
“What if we invite your real dad to our Father’s Day dinner as a surprise?” I said. “But we don’t tell Mommy. It’ll be our secret.”
Her face lit up. Hands clapped. Excitement radiated from her like sunshine—and I felt my chest break a little.
The day passed in a haze. I cooked, cleaned, set the table, moving underwater, every tick of the clock echoing in my skull.
Continue reading on the next page…