When my four-year-old daughter, Chloe, begged me to leave my girlfriend Lily’s house, I knew something was wrong. Her fear was unlike anything I’d seen before, and as much as I wanted to reassure her, I couldn’t ignore the urgency in her trembling voice.
“Chloe, don’t forget your jacket,” I called out as I grabbed my keys from the counter.
“I don’t need it, Daddy!” she yelled back, her voice muffled from the closet where she was probably picking out her favorite sparkly sneakers.
I shook my head, smiling. At just four years old, Chloe already had a mind of her own. Being her dad wasn’t easy—raising her alone never was. My ex-wife, Lauren, had left us before Chloe even turned one. She decided motherhood wasn’t for her. Since then, it’s been just the two of us.
The first year was the hardest. Chloe cried constantly, and I had no idea what I was doing. I’d rock her to sleep for hours, only to have her wake up minutes after I put her down. But we found our rhythm.
Three months ago, I met Lily. I’d gone into the coffee shop for my usual black coffee, no cream, no sugar. She was behind me in line, wearing a red scarf and a smile that was impossible to ignore. “You look like you need something stronger than coffee,” she’d joked.
That one comment turned into a full conversation, and eventually, a date. Lily was warm and easy to talk to. Chloe had met her twice already, and they seemed to get along. Chloe wasn’t shy about her feelings. If she didn’t like someone, she’d say so. The fact that she smiled around Lily gave me hope.
“Are we there yet?” Chloe asked, her nose pressed against the car window.
“Almost,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Tonight was our first visit to Lily’s home. She’d invited us for dinner and a movie, and Chloe had been talking about it all week.