“Me too. We’ll make a new normal, hon.”
“Is he still my Dad?” she asked.
“He’s the man who raised you. That won’t change, honey. But how we move forward? We’ll decide that together.”
She nodded like it made perfect sense.
“Is he still my Dad?”
**
Greg’s calls have been brief. He doesn’t ask to come home, and I don’t give him the chance to do so.
I’m just… done.
Later that week, Lindsay came over. She brought cupcakes and a paint-by-numbers kit.
Tiffany sat cross-legged on the living room floor, opening the box. “Are you mad at Uncle Mike?”
Lindsay didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself onto the floor beside her. “I’m mad that grown-ups lied to us. I’m mad that people made selfish choices.”
Greg’s calls have been brief.
Tiffany’s hands slowed. “But you’re not mad at me?”
“Never at you. Not even a little, Tiff. I’m not mad at your mommy either.”
I stood in the doorway, holding a dish towel I didn’t need, watching my daughter’s shoulders relax.
“You two hungry?” I asked. “I was going to make tacos.”
“Can we do nachos?” Tiffany’s face brightened.
“But you’re not mad at me?”
We moved around my kitchen like we had done it a hundred times before. I turned on music, Tiffany hummed along while Lindsay chopped tomatoes.
At dinner, Tiffany leaned into her side and asked, “Are you still my aunt?”
Lindsay didn’t even blink. “Forever, baby.”
“Are you still my aunt?”
**
That night, when Tiffany asked about Mike, I told her the only truth I could live with.
