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.