The first time Lily mentioned it, I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because it felt impossible.
We were driving home from daycare, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road, when my five-year-old daughter turned in her car seat and asked, “Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Father’s Day?”
My hands tightened on the wheel. I forced a light chuckle. “What do you mean, sweetie?”
She kicked her feet, cheerful and oblivious to the storm she’d just stirred. “The man who comes over when you’re at work,” she said. “He brings me chocolate. He sits with Mommy. She cooks for him. And he says he’s my real daddy.”
The words landed like stones in my chest. But I kept my voice steady, suggesting maybe she’d mixed up a story or misunderstood something. Lily shook her head—firm, certain. “No, Daddy. He told me.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay awake, replaying her words, torn between disbelief and a dread that grew heavier with every passing hour.
By morning, I knew I needed answers—but not destruction. I couldn’t accuse my wife without proof. I wouldn’t terrify Lily or shatter our home over a child’s confusion. So I chose curiosity over confrontation. With a smile that felt like glass in my throat, I told Lily she could absolutely invite her “real dad” to our Father’s Day dinner—as a surprise for Mommy. Her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands, thrilled by the secret.
The rest of the day passed in slow motion. I cooked. I set the table. I moved through our home like a ghost, counting my breaths so Lily wouldn’t sense the earthquake inside me.
At 6:07 p.m., a knock echoed through the house.
I opened the door—and there he stood. A man about my age, holding a small gift bag with a chocolate bar peeking out. The moment his eyes met mine, his expression shifted—confusion, then recognition, then regret.
Silence stretched between us.
Then Lily darted past me, calling his name with a familiarity that cut deeper than anger ever could.
My wife appeared behind me. Her face went pale. No one spoke. None of us had to. The truth hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
I stepped aside. “Come in,” I said quietly. Then, to Lily: “Go wash your hands for dinner.”
When she was gone, I turned to him. “Why are you here?”
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