It had been weeks since my ex, Mark, bothered to call our daughter, Sophie. Then, like a predictable plot twist, he texted me just before Father’s Day, wanting to visit. I wasn’t fooled. His Instagram is a gallery of outdated photos with Sophie, captioned with sappy lines about fatherhood. In reality, he’s skipped child support for months and barely checks in. Sophie’s nine now, but his posts feature her at six, as if time stopped. Seeing her wait for a text that never comes breaks my heart every time.
His message made my blood boil, but I kept my cool and texted back, “Come by at 3.” I was curious to see his plan. That night, I sat with Sophie as she played with her puzzles. “Your dad might come for Father’s Day,” I said gently. Her eyes flickered with hope, but she sounded unsure. “Really?” She showed me a half-done card from school, covered in crayon hearts. “I started this, but I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “Does he even care?” I hugged her, saying she didn’t need to finish it.
Then, her face lit up with an idea. “Wait, I’ve got it!” she said, diving into her art supplies. She worked on her card, asking me to help with glitter and scissors. When I saw what she wrote, tears welled up—it was bold and brilliant. On Father’s Day, Mark pulled up, dressed like he was auditioning for a commercial. He carried a gift bag and brought his new girlfriend, Claire, who was already filming on her phone. “This is Claire,” he said, flashing a charming smile. “She’s excited to meet Sophie.”
Claire waved distractedly, focused on her video. Sophie gave her dad a polite hug, but I could tell she felt the awkwardness. Mark handed her the gift—a trendy water bottle that screamed last-minute. “Thank you,” Sophie said, her manners intact despite the odd vibe. I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Mark play the doting dad while Claire angled for the perfect shot. If he wanted a performance, I’d let it run its course.
“Sophie, show your dad your card,” I said with a smile. She grabbed it from her room and handed it to him. Mark held it up, grinning for the camera. “Look at this!” he said, opening it. His face fell. The card read, “Happy Father’s Day, Mom!” Claire’s filming faltered. Sophie spoke up, “Mom’s always there—helping with school, making meals, taking me to the doctor. That’s what parents do.” Mark stood frozen, unable to respond.
I stepped in, handing him a folder. “Since you’re here,” I said lightly, “here’s some reading.” Inside were records of unpaid child support, missed visits, and a lawyer’s letter. Claire peeked at the papers, her face darkening. “You said you had everything under control with Sophie,” she said sharply. Mark stuttered, but no excuse came. I opened the door. “Happy Father’s Day,” I said as they left, their car peeling out. Sophie looked at her card, worried. “Was that okay?” she asked. I hugged her. “You were amazing.”
We spent the evening baking cookies, laughing and sneaking extra chocolate. As I tucked Sophie in, she hugged me and said, “You’re the best mom and dad.” That whisper was worth more than any online applause Mark could chase.
