Lily has always been that way. Soft in her voice, loud in her love.
After Eli was born—when I was still healing and everything smelled like baby lotion and exhaustion—it was Lily who showed up at 2 a.m. with hot soup in a thermos and her sleeves rolled up. She didn’t ask; she just helped. She changed diapers, hummed lullabies we’d both forgotten, held Eli through colds and fevers, and made me feel like maybe I wasn’t doing everything wrong.
By the time Eli turned five, we had a rhythm. Every Saturday, Lily picked him up for their “adventures.” Farmers’ markets, the diner for pancakes, the park with the squeaky swings. I’d get two nights to breathe—to clean, to sleep, to just be.
But sometimes, I felt like Eli’s stories were filled more with her than with me.
That Saturday, I was washing strawberries when Eli burst through the door, scraped knees and a face full of sunshine.
“Mom!” he shouted. “Guess what me and my other dad did!”
The colander slipped from my hands. Strawberries scattered like marbles across the floor.
“Your what?” I asked.
“My other dad,” he said, grinning. “He’s funny! He knows how to whistle with two fingers. Like this—”
He sprayed spit across the counter trying to demonstrate. I forced a laugh, but my stomach twisted.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Eli’s father—Trent—had left before I even realized I was pregnant. I never told him about Eli. Maybe that was my way of protecting us both. But now… who was this man Eli thought was his “other dad”?
The next morning, I asked carefully, “Eli, what’s his name?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. He just said I could call him that.”
“And Aunt Lily knows him?”
Eli nodded. “Yeah. She talks to him when they think I’m playing.”
The words felt like shards. My sister was hiding something. I needed to know what.
So the next Saturday, I followed them.
Lily’s truck led me to Maple Grove Park. I parked a few rows back, heart hammering, palms slick. And then I saw them—Lily, Eli, and a man.
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