I'm Not My Daughter's Only Father

The car pulled to a stop outside my daughter's elementary school.

I didn't rush to get out. Through the window, I stared fixedly at the family of three getting out of the car ahead of me.

The first one out was my wife, Emily Sullivan.

She was wearing an off-white fitted coat over a matching lace dress. From the inside out, I had ironed every last piece myself.

The second one out was my seven-year-old daughter. On her feet were the little leather shoes I'd specially ordered from an overseas dealer.

"Daddy, let me open the door for you."

She bounced over to the passenger side, calling out.

In that moment, the blood in my veins ran cold.

Who was she calling Daddy? I was her father.

I clenched my jaw, my eyes locked on the passenger door.

The door opened.

The first thing I saw was a man's hand with well-defined knuckles, a Rolex on his wrist—clearly a gift from a woman.

Not like me. I hadn't received a single gift from Emily since our daughter was born. She always said, "We've been married so long. Let's just keep things simple."

But it turned out…

I gave a bitter smile and kept watching.

Next came a face with delicate features. Not exceptionally handsome—not as good-looking as me—but younger.

"Honey, let's go," he said with a smile.

Honey?

That word pierced my eardrums like needles.

I stared at Emily, waiting for any reaction. Even just a flicker of guilt.

But I found nothing.

Emily very naturally placed my daughter's hand into that man's hand.

"Let's go, Emma's daddy."

Emma's… daddy?

I repeated the words to myself. The car had the heat on full blast, but my heart felt like it was trapped in a frozen wasteland.

For the past seven years, I had heard that title from countless people. And every single time, without exception, the person being called that was me.

And today, my wife had called another man that.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to stay calm.

'Don't cause a scene,' I told myself. At least not today. I didn't have enough proof yet. I couldn't blow things up.

I opened the video recording on my phone and kept watching.

My daughter's teacher came out. I had seen his picture in the parent group—an upright, middle-aged man.

I had heard that when he was younger, someone had betrayed him, so he hated homewreckers more than anything.

He walked up to Emily and the others and greeted them with a smile. "Emma's dad, you made it today too. The last time I saw you was before the new year. You and Emma's mom both came to the parent-teacher meeting together—what a happy family."

Last time?

I caught that word, my hand tightening around my phone.

Our daughter had started school last summer. From enrollment to classes, Emily had handled everything herself. She hadn't let me get involved once.

She said, "When she was little, you took care of everything. Now that she's older, let me do my job as her mom."

So sports day, parent-teacher meetings, field trips—even the parent group chat—Emily took it all on herself. I could only sneak my way in.

She said it was to build their mother-daughter bond. She said it was to lighten my load.

What she didn't say was that it was to make it easier for another man to replace me at my own daughter's school.

I took a deep breath. Even the air felt like it was filled with razor blades.