Learning the names of their stuffed animals.
Holding them when they ask, “Are you still my daddy?” and being able to say, with absolute certainty, “Yes. Now and always.”
Years from now, Lily might not remember the tension that hummed under that particular Father’s Day, or the way grown-up plans crashed quietly into each other.
What I hope she remembers are the sunflowers on the table, the pancakes for dinner, and the solid feel of her father’s arms around her when the world felt confusing.
Because in the end, whatever happened between adults, one thing never changed:
I am her father.
Not because a document says so.
Not because of biology.
But because, every day—morning and night, in joy and in fear—when she reaches out, I am there.
And no revelation, no mistake, no unexpected question from the back seat will ever undo that truth.
