Father’s Day was supposed to celebrate me. Instead, my five-year-old daughter, Lily, nearly shattered my world.
On the way home from preschool, she asked, “Daddy, can we invite my real dad to Father’s Day dinner?”
My foot slipped on the brake. “Your… real dad?”
She nodded. “He comes when you’re at work. Mommy makes him dinner sometimes. You know him.”
I forced a smile. “How about we make it a game? Invite him, but don’t tell Mommy.”
Sunday arrived. Jess said she had a photo shoot. I cooked, set the table, and waited.
At 6:07, there was a knock. Adam—my best friend, Lily’s “Uncle”—stood there. Behind him, Jess froze.
I smiled tightly. “Come in. Dinner’s ready.”
Lily cheered. “I told him it’d be fun!”
During dinner, the truth came out. “He’s my real daddy!” Lily said.
Jess whispered, “We were going to tell you.”
“You already did,” I said. “You just didn’t admit it.”
I stood. “Ten minutes. Get your things.”
They left. I held Lily, heartbroken but resolute.
Days later, I filed for divorce. Paternity tests didn’t matter. She’s my daughter—I’ve been there through every laugh, every fever, every tear.
That night, she whispered, “Are you still my real daddy?”
I kissed her head. “I always have been. I always will be.”
And that was all she needed.
