Ever since our divorce was finalized, Kyle has been building an Instagram shrine to fatherhood—throwback birthday cakes, selfies with Emma, and saccharine captions like “Forever proud to be your dad.” She’s nine now.
In reality, he ghosted his responsibilities: no child support in six months, canceled visits, and he hasn’t even texted Emma in a month. She keeps checking her phone after dinner, hoping for a message—with nothing.
Then, just before Father’s Day, he texts: “Thinking of stopping by Sunday to see Emma.” Shepherding her hopes, I agree. We prepare together. Emma pulls out a half-completed card from school. Tearfully, she admits she isn’t sure she even has a dad anymore. Then her face brightens—she finishes the card… for me. We glue in glitter, and the message inside brings me to tears.
At 2:58 p.m., Kyle arrives, looking photo‑ready—and brings his girlfriend, Ava, filming him. Emma obliges a hug. He gives her a generic, impulse‑aisle gift. I prompt, “Show your dad the card.” Emma hands it over. He unfolds it—and his grin falls away as he sees: “Happy Father’s Day… to Mom!”
“He’s the one who does everything real parents do,” she says. Kyle is speechless. Ava, furious, confronts him as he’s handed a binder—child‑support misses, court notices, lawyer letters. Kyle and Ava leave, stunned. Emma asks if she did something wrong; I reassure her, “You did exactly right.”
We bake cookies together, talking about everything except the visit. At bedtime, she whispers, “You really are both my parents.”