Kyle hasn’t called in weeks but suddenly wants a Father’s Day visit. I agree, knowing he’s after likes, not love. What he doesn’t know?
Our daughter innocently made a card that might just expose the truth — and I’m letting it happen. Ever since our divorce was finalized, Kyle has built what I can only describe as a digital shrine to his fatherhood. His Instagram is a carefully curated museum of throwback birthday cakes, selfies with Emma from years ago, and captions that make your teeth ache with their sweetness.
“Forever proud to be your dad,” he posted last week above a photo of Emma from her sixth birthday. She’s nine now. But here’s the thing about social media versus reality.
While Kyle’s busy collecting likes and heart-eye emojis from strangers who think he’s Father of the Year, he’s ghosted his actual responsibilities. He hasn’t sent child support in half a year and his canceled visits are piling up like unopened mail. It’s been nearly a month since he even texted Emma.
Not even a “how was school” or “sleep tight.” Nothing. I’ve watched my daughter check her phone after dinner, hoping for something from him. Anything.
Watching her face fall when there’s nothing there… it breaks me. Then, like clockwork, just days before Father’s Day, a message from Kyle popped up on my phone. “Thinking of stopping by Sunday to see Emma for Father’s Day.”
I stared at that text for a solid minute.
The audacity of it all! Six months of radio silence, then swooping in like some kind of holiday hero? I swallowed the urge to throw my phone across the room.
Instead, I replied, “Sure. Come by at 3.”
I knew I had to prepare Emma. So that night, I sat beside her as she worked on a puzzle and said gently, “Sweetheart, your dad might be coming over for Father’s Day.”
“Really?” she asked, cautiously hopeful, but her voice cracked around the word.
I nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He texted. Said he wants to see you.”
She got up and rummaged in her backpack.
From one of the side pockets, she pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of cardstock — half covered in crayon hearts, the other half blank. “We started making cards at school. My teacher said we had to,” she said quietly.
Then her voice lowered to a whisper. “But I didn’t know how to finish it. I don’t even know if I have a dad anymore.”
My heart broke right then and there.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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