I’ve always been a hands-on dad. So last week, I picked Lily up from preschool like usual. She smelled like finger paint and raisins. As we pulled into the driveway, she leaned forward in her booster seat, holding a crayon, and said:
“Daddy, can we invite my real dad to Father’s Day dinner?”
I slammed the brake. We jolted to a stop.
“Your… real dad?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nodded, curls bouncing. “Yeah! He comes when you’re at work.”
I blinked, stunned. “Maybe you’re mixing something up, sweetie.”
“Uh uh,” she said. “He brings me choclate . We play tea party. Mommy makes dinner for him sometimes. You know him. He told me he’s my real daddy.”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. My breath came in fragments. “I know him?” I thought. But I didn’t want to accuse Jess or scare Lily. So I played along.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s a big surprise. Want to play a game? Invite him to dinner on Sunday. But don’t tell Mommy. And don’t tell him I’ll be home. It’ll be our little secret.”
Lily lit up. “A game?”
“Yep. Just between us.”
She beamed. “Okay! I love games!”
I kissed her head, but inside, I was unraveling.
Sunday came fast. Jess claimed she had an engagement shoot at the lake. I asked why on Father’s Day. She mumbled something about scheduling conflicts. I nodded, pretending to believe her.
That morning, I made pancakes. Took Lily to the park. Let her pick a sunflower bouquet for the table. Jess was gone by the time we got home.
I told her I’d be out all day, left Lily with a babysitter, and said I’d visit my parents. She didn’t expect me back until late.
Instead, I made dinner. Chicken cordon bleu. Garlic mashed potatoes. Roasted carrots. I poured wine. Lit candles. Lily helped set the table, thrilled about our “game.”
At 6:07 p.m., there was a knock.
I opened the door—and nearly dropped the tray.
Adam.
