One night, during our usual bedtime ritual, she curled into my side with her hair still damp from the bath. She traced little shapes on my arm with her finger. Then she whispered, so quietly it almost dissolved into the dark, “Are you still my daddy?” The question split me open. I held her close and told her the only truth that mattered—one that would never change. “I always have been,” I said. “And I always will be.” She exhaled, the kind of breath only a child releases when they feel truly safe again. In that moment, things fell back into place—not because everything had been solved, but because our connection had held strong through the confusion.
In the weeks that followed, the house found its rhythm again. There were still difficult conversations—necessary ones, awkward ones—but none of it spilled into Lily’s world. I protected that space. She went back to drawing suns wearing sunglasses, naming bugs, and singing off-key every morning. I went back to being the constant she never needed to doubt.
