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."

Just as Nate was about to read the document, his phone rang.

Selena's panicked voice spilled through the speaker. "Nate, my stomach hurts... can you come get me? Please? I'm really scared…"

Without a second thought, he responded, "I'll be right there."

He soothed her anxiously, didn't glance back at the page, picked up the pen and scribbled his signature in haste, then rushed out the door without another word.

I watched his retreating figure and let out a cold, quiet laugh.

'So this is how it ends. This house, this family—finally gone.'

That afternoon, Nate sent a message. He'd arranged for a courier to deliver our daughter's birthday present.

When I opened the package, I froze. It was a Barbie doll.

Last year, during a company retreat, I brought our daughter along.

Selena, behind my back, took her into a haunted house. Inside, actors dressed as grotesque Barbie dolls had terrified her so badly, she sobbed uncontrollably.

Selena, annoyed, left her there—alone—in the dark for a full hour.

We combed the entire venue before finally finding her. She had passed out from fear.

When she woke, she told us through trembling lips that Selena had left her on purpose.

Selena denied it flatly. Nate, of course, stood by her side, brushing our daughter off with a dismissive, "Don't imagine things."

Since then, the mere sight of a Barbie gave her nightmares.

And now, he sends her this—for her birthday.

How absurd. What a ridiculous excuse for a father.

I thought about quietly replacing the gift, but it was too late—my daughter had already seen it.

That night, after coming home, Nate said abruptly, "I'm planning to have Selena move in for a while."

His tone was casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"We're still keeping our marriage a secret. I don't want her to know about us. You and the kid should move out temporarily. Keep your distance."

"So you're kicking us out… just so you can play house with her?" I asked.

Nate frowned, clearly irritated. "Don't twist my words. It's just temporary. We can't go public with this marriage. You don't have the status for that."

I said nothing, just let out a low, mirthless laugh.

So that's what we were to him—my daughter and I. A hidden shame. A burden.

The kind of anger I felt didn't even leave room for arguments.

I was simply tired. So tired.

Fine. Whatever.

He noticed my expression, and suddenly softened his voice. "I'll bring you two back in a few days. I'll make it up to you."

I nodded, playing along, and walked upstairs without a word.

It didn't matter anymore. Whether I left now or later, the outcome was the same. The damage had already been done. Whatever he thought he could "make up," I didn't need it.

I packed quickly and quietly, and took my daughter's hand.

As we reached the door, it opened.

Selena stepped in, dragging a suitcase behind her.

Nate rushed forward immediately to take it from her. "I told you I'd come get you. That's too much to carry. Don't wear yourself out."

But mid-sentence, he seemed to realize something. He glanced at me, uneasy and alert.

Selena saw me and paused, visibly surprised. "Christine? Why are you at Nate's place?"

Before I could respond, Nate cut in, "She and her kid didn't have anywhere to go. I felt bad for them and let them stay for a while."

Felt bad?

Once, he used to say we were distant relatives. Now, we were homeless charity cases.

I thought I was numb to all his excuses by now. But somehow, every one still managed to stab a little deeper.

And then—

"Hello, Uncle Nate." My daughter's voice rang out, polite and clear.

Hearing her call him "Uncle," Nate froze.

"What… what did she just call me?"