The first time Lily said it, I laughed because it sounded like one of those strange, innocent things children blurt out. We were driving home from daycare when she asked, “Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Father’s Day?” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I forced a chuckle and asked what she meant. Lily, only five, swung her legs happily and explained that a man came by when I was at work, brought her chocolate, and sat with Mommy while they talked. She said Mommy cooked dinner for him sometimes, and that he told her he was her “real daddy.” My heart pounded, but I kept my voice gentle, telling her maybe she had mixed something up. She shook her head with absolute certainty. That night, I barely slept, replaying her words again and again, trying to decide what was real and what was just a child’s imagination.
By morning, I knew I needed the truth, but I couldn’t confront my wife without proof. I didn’t want to scare Lily or cause a scene based on a misunderstanding. So I turned her story into a game. I told her, with a smile that felt glued on, to invite her “real dad” to our Father’s Day dinner but to keep it a secret from Mommy. Lily clapped, delighted by the idea of a surprise. I spent the day moving like a ghost through the house, setting the table, cooking a meal I could barely taste, practicing calm breaths so my daughter wouldn’t see my fear. Every tick of the clock felt heavy. When 6:07 p.m. arrived, there was a knock at the door. My hands trembled as I opened it.