“Are You Still My Daddy?”
One night, a few weeks after that Father’s Day, Lily was fresh from the bath. Her hair was damp and smelled like strawberries. We were lying in her bed, our usual routine—story, nightlight, a few minutes of talking in the soft dark.
She traced little shapes on my arm with one finger. Hearts. Circles. Stars.
“Yes, bug?”
Her voice got even quieter. “Are you still my daddy?”
There it was. The quiet echo of everything she had sensed beneath the surface. Children don’t need every fact to feel that something has shifted. They pick it up in the spaces between words.
That question went straight through me.
I pulled her close and spoke carefully.
“I have always been your daddy,” I said. “From the very first time I held you. And I always will be. Nothing will ever change that. Not questions, not other people, not anything that happens between grown-ups. You are my girl. I am your dad. That’s forever.”
She let out a long, soft breath. The kind you only hear when a child finally believes they’re safe.
Her body relaxed against mine. Within minutes she was asleep, one small hand still resting on my arm.
Our life might look different on paper someday. But the bond between us had held in the storm.
Continue reading…
