My daughter, Amy, is five, and she has always called me Dad.
We do almost everything together. I take her to the park, help with bedtime, make pancakes on Sundays, and sit through endless cartoons because she insists I watch with her.
So when she suddenly said, “I want to go with Daddy,” I laughed.
“I am Daddy,” I told her.
She shook her head.
“No, you’re not. Daddy told me.”
I felt my chest tighten.
I asked who had said that, but before she answered, my wife walked into the room.
She heard the last part of the conversation and immediately went pale.
Then Amy pointed toward a framed photo on the shelf.
“That’s my real daddy.”
I looked at the picture.
It was my wife’s older brother, who had died before Amy was born.
For a second, I was completely confused.
Then my wife started laughing nervously.
She explained that the night before, Amy had been looking through old family photos with her grandmother. Grandma had pointed to her son and jokingly said, “That was your mommy’s first favorite man.”
Somehow, Amy had mixed up the story and decided he was her “real daddy.”
I just stood there staring at my wife.
Then we both started laughing.
For ten terrifying seconds, I had imagined every possible explanation.
Thankfully, the truth was much simpler than my brain had made it.
