The drive home from daycare was always my favorite part of the day, a gentle bridge between deadlines and dinner, between stress and laughter. The late sun poured through the windshield while soft music filled the car. Lily kicked her feet in the back seat, humming happily, when she suddenly asked, “Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Father’s Day?” Her voice was calm, almost casual, as if she’d asked for dessert instead of unraveling my world.
I laughed at first, certain I’d misheard. But when I glanced in the mirror, she wasn’t smiling. She explained that a man visited Mommy when I was at work, brought fancy chocolates, and said he was her real father. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I kept my voice steady, asking gentle questions, but her certainty shook me. That night, I watched my wife move through our routine like nothing was wrong, while everything inside me felt upside down.
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