The next day, I went to my daughter's sports day alone.
When she didn't see her father in the crowd, tears welled up in her eyes. She cried quietly and stubbornly.
From the moment she was born, Nate had never been there—not for her milestones, not for a single parent-child event.
Even though I stayed with her through the competition, even though she won first place, it didn't make her smile.
For a child, the absence of a father feels like the absence of father's love.
On the way home, she kept asking me, "Mommy, does Daddy not like me? Mommy, will Daddy come home tonight for my birthday?"
I couldn't answer.
I didn't have the heart to let her hope and be disappointed again, so I kept texting Nate. Over and over, I messaged him.
Eventually, he replied: [I'll come to the birthday.]
The moment I saw it, I lit up.
I turned to my daughter, smiling. "Of course. Daddy's coming."
She squealed in delight, jumping up and down, nearly trembling with excitement.
I let out a quiet breath.
Since we got married, this would be the first time Nate had ever agreed to celebrate our daughter's birthday—as a father.
That evening, my daughter and I sat at the dining table, waiting for him.
The table was filled with dishes Nate liked. She'd memorized all of her secret CEO father's preferences, even though she couldn't call him "Daddy."
She waited by the door. Then sat. Then waited again.
By 11:50 p.m., she finally walked over, eyes dim, her little frame deflated.
I had called Nate again and again. I texted until my fingers hurt.
No response.
I knew—he wasn't coming.
"Mommy," she said softly, trying her best to be mature, "Daddy must be really busy. Let's not wait anymore."
She was trying to be understanding, but her disappointment hung heavy in the air.
I pushed down my sadness and wrapped her in my arms. "How about… we wait just a little longer?"
She shook her head. She didn't want to wait anymore.
I pressed a long kiss to her cheek.
If she couldn't feel her father's love, then I'd give her all of mine.
So I celebrated her birthday alone with her.
In the candlelight, she lowered her head and made a wish.
I didn't ask what it was. But I knew she wished her father would love her.
That night, we didn't mention Nate again.
Once she fell asleep, I picked up my phone, out of habit, and scrolled through Instagram.
There it was—Selena's new post.
[It's my birthday today. I received the best gift.]
The picture showed a man on one knee, holding out flowers and a ring.
I couldn't see his full face, but I knew it was Nate.
And the ring… it was the custom piece he had made in France. I had once told him I liked it, naively asked if it could be mine. He refused.
Now, he had given it to the woman he loved. A proposal, no doubt.
To him, Selena was the real wife.
His daughter and Selena had the same birthday. Yet he chose to be with the woman he loved, leaving his daughter behind.
At that moment, whatever hope I had left for him vanished completely.
Pain stabbed through my chest, again and again.
I pressed my fists hard against my heart, trying to ease it, trying to breathe.
It took a long time for that pain to quiet into stillness.
I deleted Selena from my contacts.
The next morning, the sound of the front door woke me.
I took out the divorce papers I had prepared, walked downstairs.
There was Nate, standing by the dining table, staring at the leftover cake.
My heart felt calm—unnaturally calm.
He heard my footsteps and looked up. "I worked too late last night. I forgot."
I gave a cold, hollow laugh.
I had called him. Texted him endlessly. He didn't hear? Didn't see?
No. He was just too busy holding another woman. Everything else could be ignored.
I flipped the divorce papers to the last page, laid them flat on the table, and pointed to the signature line.
"Sign it."
