A tremor moved up my arms. I straightened slowly and looked around as if the mysterious figure might be standing nearby, watching us. Parents were scattered at the gate, chatting, checking phones, bundling children into coats.
Everything looked painfully normal. “Did he come inside to get you?” I asked. She nodded.
My stomach lurched. “You said this happens on some days?” I asked carefully.
“Yes. He’s nice. He’s funny.
He tells jokes. He lets me sit in the front of his car.”
That was the moment the world tilted. Not dramatically, not with a crash—but with a slow, sickening shift that left me unsure of where solid ground was anymore.
We walked to the car in silence. She climbed into her booster seat, still humming, perfectly at ease. I fastened her in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment with my hand resting on the roof.
My mind played her words back again and again like a recording that refused to erase. A new daddy. She had said it so innocently, unaware of the earthquake she had just caused.
During the drive home, she chattered about her art project, about the turtle her class was studying, and about how she wanted pancakes for dinner. I replied automatically, but my thoughts were miles away, racing, colliding. Had my wife arranged this?
Was this some misguided joke? A nickname? Or was there something I didn’t know about—something that had been unfolding behind my back while I sat at my desk every day, thinking our life was steady and ordinary?
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