When Allie hears her kid say, “I miss you, Dad,” into the landline, everything stops. She believed her hubby died 18 years ago. Allie must face the unthinkable: her life may have been based on a lie as secrets surface and reality crumbles.

Our daughter Lily was two weeks old when my husband died.

A automobile crash, they stated. Sudden. Brutal. Final. Daniel once went diaper shopping. Police arrived at my door, softly severing my world.

I was 23. Still bleeding postpartum. Swaddling a newborn is a learning process. Suddenly, I was widowed.

Grief was excruciating. Heavy, like a wet garment I couldn’t shake. Little, pink, and oblivious Lily needed more than I could provide. Gloria, Daniel’s mother, intervened.

She remained calm. Practical. The city manager’s assistant moved like she knew what was next.

“I’ll take care of everything,” she said.

So I let her.

I saw no body. The closed casket didn’t bother me. Gloria called the date too extreme. In 48 hours, she scheduled cremation. I signed the documents. Smoothed a story that had broken me.

Gloria cleaned up like a woman while I slept in bed with Lily on my chest for weeks.

I never saw him. Never once.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was d.e.ad.

Eighteen years.

Built a life. Slowly. Quietly. Our existence didn’t create headlines or inspire jealousy, but it was ours. I read bedtime tales, cooked casseroles, and worked from home. With her father’s deep eyes and cautious smile, Lily became intelligent and watchful.

She frequently but politely inquired about him. Like she didn’t want to harm me by asking.

“What did Dad laugh like?”

“What would he name me if I were a boy?”

Did he like music?

She received my meager possessions. Stories wore smooth from repetition. His awful jokes. His preference for off-brand sodas. He drummed on the driving wheel to music he couldn’t remember.

Enough was enough. A while.

Until the evening that shattered my world.

It was Tuesday. As I folded laundry in the hallway, I heard Lily’s gentle, wavering voice through her door crack.

“Okay… Dad, I miss you.”

I froze. The sock in my hand fell.

Dad?

Tiptoeing toward the room, my heart banged against my ribs. Sitting on her bed, she held the landline telephone. After accidently stepping on a creaky floorboard, she heard me.

She looked up. Wide. Panicked. She hung up so swiftly the phone clattered to the base.

To whom were you talking? I asked calmly, but I could feel the quake.

She gulped. “Wrong number.”

She ran by me and up the stairs.

But I knew. I knew that tone. That wasn’t a prank call or a pal acting. The daughter whispered to someone she missed. She believed in someone.

As Lily slept, I sat in the kitchen with the telephone in my lap like a ticking bomb. I checked call logs. Out-of-state area code.

My hand was on the keyboard.

Avoid this, I warned myself. A sham. Mistake.

I pressed the numbers nonetheless.

It rang twice.

Then, breathing. Man’s breath. Low. Familiar.

He asked, “Lily?”

His voice. The voice of God. Daniel’s older, raspier voice returned after nearly two decades.

“I was hoping you’d call again tonight,” he whispered.

It hurt my throat.

“This isn’t Lily,” I whispered.

Silence. Line went dead.

I didn’t wait for Lily’s excuses the next morning.

“Sit down,” I ordered.

She looked scared I would break apart in front of her.

Instead, I waited. I let silence work.

Finally, she stood, went upstairs, and brought an envelope. Pale and worn.

“He sent this,” she said, “months ago.”

Inside was a letter. Daniel’s distinct handwriting.

My name is Daniel. I now had the bravery to contact out if you’re reading this. Your father.”

Each syllable threatened my sanity.

“I don’t deserve forgiveness. I panicked upon your birth. I was unprepared. Mum helped me disappear. I liked it most. I now know it wasn’t. I’ve followed your life remotely. Always answer if you want to talk.”

Bottom: phone number. The one I just called.

I looked up at Lily. How did this happen?

She twisted her fingers. He sent a message to my old school email. He wanted to clarify. I doubted him. I checked his social media. His shots. I needed certainty. Comparing his face to mine.”

Eyes filled with tears.

Mom, I have his eyes. I needed to know.”

And now? I requested.

I want answers. Not forgiving him. I want the truth.”

The pain pierced through me like glass as I nodded slowly.

I called him two days later.

“Meet me,” I said.

We met downtown at a café. Bright, neutral, public.

His seat was ready when I arrived.

Older. Thinner. Regret veiled his young face. His humiliation was evident when he looked up. A history.

And cowardice.

Sitting across from him, I clutched my coffee cup like an anchor.

I said, “You didn’t just leave me. “You left her.”

“I know,” Daniel whispered. “I regret it every day.”

“You could have returned. You have 18 years to reconsider.”

“I tried. Many times. My mother threatened to lose everything if she was caught forging a death certificate. Her advice was to grieve rather than get angry.”

“She lied.”

“Now I know. But suddenly I believed her.”

Daniel, she didn’t fake your death. You did.”

He remained silent. Just looked at the table.

“I was a scared kid,” he continued.

I snapped, “So was I.” But I couldn’t escape. I stayed. I reared Lily. Alone.”

He recoiled.

“I’m not here to make excuses,” he concluded. I’m here because Lily gave me another chance. I don’t want to disappoint.”

I moved a folded paper across the table.

He inquired, “What’s this?”

“Eighteen years of support,” I said. None through the courts. Private arrangement. If you want to fix things, start there.”

Opened the paper. Read the number. Lips tightened.

“I’ll pay,” he said after a pause.

“Good,” I rose. “If you want to stay in Lily’s life, be consistent. No disappearing. Not lied.”

He nodded. No dispute.

Weeks passed. Then months.

We received all payments on schedule.

Lily and Daniel rebuilt slowly and cautiously.

Initial calls were brief. Coffee meetings follow. Ice cream shops, parks, and libraries were where they met without memories. The topic was school. About books. About his dislike of pickles and her love of scrambled eggs.

There were no spectacular reunions. Two people stitching old fabric together.

Lily returned home one evening, cold-pink cheeks and bright eyes.

“He cried today,” she said. “When I told him about my sixth-grade science fair win. He lamented missing it.”

I nodded.

“He should hate it,” I whispered.

“He does,” she muttered.

I eventually joined them for coffee. Was awkward at first. No longer married. We were co-parents in a strange new way.

Daniel looked at me one afternoon and said, “Thanks. For raising her.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m grateful.”

For the first time in nearly two decades, his voice didn’t bother me.