Chapter 2: The Story They Were Told
That night, my apartment felt strangely unfamiliar.
Usually, weekends with Ava and Eli were loud.
Beautiful chaos.
Shoes left in random places.
Cartoons playing too loudly.
Eli asking a hundred questions before breakfast.
Ava singing songs she made up herself.
But that night, after they fell asleep, I sat alone on the couch staring at the dark television screen.
I kept replaying Eli’s words.
“Mom says you’re leaving us again.””
Again.
That one word haunted me.
Because technically, I had left.
But not them.
I left the marriage.
There was a difference.
A difference a six-year-old shouldn’t have to understand.
The next morning, I made pancakes.
Eli usually ate the chocolate chips first.
Ava usually cut hers into tiny squares because she said “big pancakes taste different.””
Small things.
Things only a parent notices.
Things nobody should take away.
Ava sat at the table swinging her legs.
“Daddy?””
“Yeah?””
“Are you mad at Mom?””
The question caught me off guard.
I put the spatula down.
“Why do you ask?””
She shrugged.
“Because grown-ups always get mad.””
I sat beside her.
“I’m not mad at you.””
“I know.””
“I’m not mad at your mom either.””
She looked confused.
“But she’s mad at you.””
I forced myself to stay calm.
“Why do you think that?””
Ava looked at Eli.
The two of them exchanged a glance.
That scared me.
Kids shouldn’t have secret conversations about adult problems.
Finally, Eli spoke.
“Mom says you wanted a different family.””
My heart sank.
“What?””
“She said you got tired of us.””
I felt anger rise inside me.
Real anger.
The kind that burns hot and fast.
But I swallowed it.
Because I wasn’t talking to my enemy.
I was talking to my son.
“Eli, look at me.””
He did.
“Did I ever tell you I didn’t want you?””
He shook his head.
“Did I ever miss a pickup because I didn’t want to see you?””
“No.””
“Did I ever stop calling?””
“No.””
“Then why would I stop wanting you?””
He stared at his plate.
“I don’t know.””
That answer hurt the most.
Because he believed the question was reasonable.
I spent the rest of the morning being a normal dad.
We built the airplane.
We watched a movie.
We played outside.
But behind every laugh was the same thought.
How long had this been happening?
During lunch, my phone rang.
Nia.
I looked at the screen.
The old version of me would have answered immediately.
The version who always tried to avoid conflict.
The version who apologized even when he wasn’t wrong.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Then answered.
“What do you want?””
Silence.
Then:
“Wow.””
Her voice was cold.
“So that’s how you’re talking to me now?””
“I want to know why you told Eli I didn’t want him.””
“You’re twisting things.””
“No, I’m asking a question.””
“You heard a child’s interpretation of a conversation.””
“A child repeated your exact words.””
She sighed.
“Mark, you need to stop acting like a victim.””
My jaw tightened.
“I’m not the victim here?””
“No.””
“Then who is?””
Another pause.
Then she said:
“The kids.””
I stood up.
“You’re right.””
Her tone softened slightly.
“I am?””
“Yes. They are the victims.””
I heard her breathing change.
Because she knew.
She knew I wasn’t fighting her anymore.
I was fighting for them.
That evening, after dropping the kids back at her house, I noticed something.
Ava’s backpack was open.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
Then I saw my name written on the outside.
Daddy.
My stomach tightened.
I unfolded it.
It was a drawing.
A picture of three people holding hands.
Me.
Ava.
Eli.
Above us was a sentence written in shaky handwriting.
“Daddy loves us but Mommy says he doesn’t.””
I stared at those words until they blurred.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
There was only one sentence.
“You need to see what Nia has been telling everyone.””
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And beneath it was a photograph.
A photograph that changed everything.
