Life didn’t warn me that it could change from the backseat of a car—least of all from a five-year-old with raisin breath and a crayon.
It was the Friday before Father’s Day. I’d just picked up my daughter, Lily, from preschool, smelling of finger paint and sunshine.
Halfway home, mid-discussion about clouds at picnics, she leaned forward and said:
“Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Sunday?”
I slammed the brakes. “Your… real dad?”
She nodded. “He comes when you’re at work. Mommy makes him dinner. He told me he’s my real daddy.”
I laughed to hide the shock. I had to know if she was right, so I played along. “Sure, let’s make it a game,” I told her.
Sunday evening, Lily set the table with sticky pride, choosing a sunflower centerpiece. At 6:07, a knock came.
I opened the door. It was Adam—my best friend, college roommate, fishing buddy, and my best man. He stood there with a bottle of wine, stunned.
“Hey… bro,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”
That night, everything I thought I knew about family, friendship, and love was turned upside down.