You never expect your life to change from the backseat of a car—especially because of a five-year-old with raisin breath and a crayon.
But that’s exactly what happened.
It was the Friday before Father’s Day. I had just picked up my daughter, Lily, from preschool. She smelled like finger paint and sunshine.
Halfway through a discussion about why clouds aren’t allowed at picnics, she leaned forward and said:
“Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Sunday?”
I hit the brakes. Groceries clattered. My heart pounded.
“Your… real dad?”
She nodded. “Yeah! He comes when you’re at work. Mommy makes him dinner. He plays tea party with me. He told me he’s my real daddy.”
I laughed, because the alternative was too sharp.
“Maybe you’re mixed up, sweetheart.”
“Nope! You know him. He said so.”
That sentence hit me like a nail in the chest. I didn’t confront Jess. I needed proof. I played along.
We would invite him for Father’s Day dinner—our little secret.
That Sunday, I acted normal. Jess had an engagement shoot; I nodded and said we’d be out. But we weren’t. I made dinner. Lily helped, arranging a sunflower bouquet—“because real dads love yellow.”
At exactly 6:07, there was a knock.
It was Adam—my best friend, college roommate, fishing buddy, best man at our wedding. He stood in khakis, holding wine, face crumpled.
“Hey… bro,” he stammered. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”