My ex, Tom, hadn’t contacted our daughter, Ava, in nearly a month. So when he texted me before Father’s Day, asking to visit, I knew it was a stunt. His social media paints him as a devoted dad, with old photos of Ava and captions dripping with pride. But she’s nine now, not six like in those pictures, and he’s dodged child support and visits for months. Seeing Ava check her phone, hoping for a message from him, is gut-wrenching.
I wanted to tell him no, but curiosity got the better of me. “Come at 3,” I texted back. That night, I told Ava her dad might come by. She looked hopeful but hesitant. “For real?” she asked, pulling out a crumpled card she’d started at school. “I didn’t finish it,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what to write about him.” I hugged her, saying she didn’t have to make it if it felt wrong. Her eyes suddenly sparkled. “Actually, I have an idea,” she said, grabbing her art supplies.
Ava worked on her card, asking for help with glitter and cutting out shapes. When I saw the finished card, my heart swelled—it was honest and powerful. On Father’s Day, Tom arrived, looking polished and carrying a gift bag. He wasn’t alone. “This is Lisa,” he said, introducing his girlfriend, who was already recording on her phone. Lisa gave a quick nod, focused on capturing the moment. Ava hugged her dad, but it felt more dutiful than warm.
Tom handed Ava the gift—a glittery water bottle, clearly a rushed choice. “Thanks,” Ava said politely, though her expression showed she wasn’t thrilled. I watched from the sidelines, letting Tom play his role. Lisa moved around, filming like she was crafting a heartwarming video. I could almost see the hashtags she was planning. But I knew Ava had something up her sleeve.
“Hey, Ava, why don’t you give your dad the card?” I called out. She ran to get it and handed it to Tom. He smiled broadly, holding it up for Lisa’s camera. “A card from my kid!” he said, opening it. His smile vanished. The card said, “Happy Father’s Day to Mom!” Lisa’s phone wavered. Ava spoke clearly, “Mom does all the parent stuff—like helping with homework and taking me to the doctor. That’s what matters.”
Tom stood there, stunned. Lisa stopped filming, her face a mix of shock and frustration. I pulled out a folder. “Here’s something else,” I said, handing Tom a stack of papers—missed payments, skipped visits, and a letter from my lawyer. Lisa read over his shoulder, her voice sharp. “You said you were a great dad,” she said. Tom tried to explain, but his words fell flat. I opened the door. “Enjoy your day,” I said as they left, their car speeding off.
Ava picked up the card Tom had dropped. “Did I mess up?” she asked. I knelt down and hugged her. “You were perfect,” I said. We baked cookies that night, giggling and stealing extra chocolate chips. As I tucked her in, she whispered, “You’re my everything.” That moment was worth more than any of Tom’s empty posts.
