The first time Lily mentioned it, I laughed it off.
She was five. Innocent. Imaginative.
“Daddy, can we invite my real dad to dinner on Father’s Day?”
I thought it was a game. A mix-up from a cartoon or a playground whisper.
But the way she said it—so certain, so calm—planted a seed of dread I couldn’t shake.
The Truth in a Child’s Words
Lily described him in detail:
A man who came when I was at work
Who brought her chocolate
Who sat with my wife while she cooked
Who told her, “I’m your real daddy.”
My stomach dropped. But I kept my voice steady.
“Maybe you’re confused, sweetie.”
She shook her head. “No. He lives near the park.”
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Every memory replayed like evidence:
My wife’s late “girl nights”
The extra groceries
The hushed phone calls
But I needed proof—not panic.
The Plan: A “Surprise” Dinner:
