Later that week, Lindsay came over. She brought cupcakes and a paint-by-numbers kit.
Tiffany sat cross-legged on the living room floor, opening the box. “Are you mad at Uncle Mike?”
Lindsay didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself onto the floor beside her. “I’m mad that grown-ups lied to us. I’m mad that people made selfish choices.”
Greg’s calls have been brief.
Tiffany’s hands slowed. “But you’re not mad at me?”
“Never at you. Not even a little, Tiff. I’m not mad at your mommy either.”
I stood in the doorway, holding a dish towel I didn’t need, watching my daughter’s shoulders relax.
“You two hungry?” I asked. “I was going to make tacos.”
“Can we do nachos?” Tiffany’s face brightened.
We moved around my kitchen like we had done it a hundred times before.
“But you’re not mad at me?”
At dinner, Tiffany leaned into her side and asked, “Are you still my aunt?”
Lindsay didn’t even blink. “Forever, baby.”
That night, when Tiffany asked about Mike, I told her the only truth I could live with.
“He’s your godfather,” I said. “Nothing else. And that’s how it will stay.”
Because biology can explain a beginning. But trust decides what happens next.
I told her the only truth I could live with.
If this happened to you, what would you do? We’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
