Those three words echoed through my head.
I had been married to Melissa for eight years.
Lily was five.
I was there the night she was born.
I held Melissa’s hand during seventeen hours of labor. I cut Lily’s umbilical cord. I changed her first diaper.
I was the man who walked around the living room at 3 a.m. with a screaming baby against my chest.
I taught her how to ride a bicycle.
I checked under her bed for monsters every night.
There was no “other daddy.”
At least, there wasn’t supposed to be.
I placed my fork down carefully.
“Maybe you mixed something up, sweetie.”
Lily shook her head.
“No.”
Then she smiled.
“He comes over when you’re at work.”
My stomach dropped.
“He does?”
“Yeah. He brings me chocolate.”
I couldn’t breathe properly.
Children misunderstand things.
I knew that.
Maybe Melissa had a cousin visiting.
