As soon as the door shut, Lisa buried her face in my shoulder.
“Are you still my daddy?” she whispered.
That question hit harder than any accusation ever could.
I pressed my cheek against her hair and held her tighter. “Always,” I said. My voice broke despite my effort to steady it. “Always and forever.”
But to understand how we got there, I need to go back.
My name is Landon. I’m thirty years old, and Lisa is my daughter.
Not biologically.
But in every way that truly matters.
Her parents, Lila and Mateo, were my closest friends growing up. We met in middle school. We bonded over terrible cafeteria food and an equally terrible love of over-the-top action movies. Somehow, we never drifted apart. Lila was warmth and light. Mateo was steady and thoughtful. They balanced each other in a way that made you believe in soulmates.
They married young. When Lisa was born, I was at the hospital pacing the hallway with Mateo as if I were the one about to become a father.
