The child stubbornly refused to change how she addressed him.
I closed my eyes briefly, pulled her into my arms, and nodded.
“Okay.”
…
February 12th was Lily’s birthday.
I had deliberately reminded Ethan two days in advance so he could prepare.
This would likely be the last birthday his daughter would celebrate with him.
I wanted Lily to have her wish.
On her birthday morning, Lily woke up early and put on a pretty little dress, asking nervously:
“Mommy, Daddy will come to Lily’s birthday party, right?”
“Of course he will.”
I reassured my daughter while sending Ethan a text:
“It’s your daughter’s birthday today. Where are you?”
The message went out like a stone dropping into the sea, no response returning.
My daughter lowered her head, clutching the ribbon on the cake box.
“Daddy’s not coming, is he?”
After a moment, as if trying to comfort herself, she said:
“It’s okay. Uncle is busy. We shouldn’t bother him.”
“Mommy, let’s eat cake.”
This was the first time my daughter called Ethan “Uncle.”
She seemed to be gradually accepting that she wasn’t important to her father.
But her downturned mouth and reddened eyes betrayed her sadness.
Seeing my daughter trying to be strong made something ignite inside me.
The pain burned through my chest and lungs.
I picked up my phone and opened my chat with Ethan:
“Too busy even for your daughter’s birthday?”
“Do you love Victoria so much that you need to be by her side every minute?”
My finger hovered over the send button, unable to press it.
Just then, a new message appeared in the chat:
“Come to the pack house.”
