That’s the problem with Vanessa. She doesn’t lie outright. She just makes promises sound easy—until she doesn’t follow through.
And Sophie? She always believes her. Every single time.
I let out a slow breath and stare into the coffee like it might give me answers.
It never does.
I lean back in the chair, the ache in my knee flaring as I shift.
It’s been three years since the divorce, and it still hits like a punch every time Sophie hangs her hopes on someone who’s already let her down.
We got married because she got pregnant.
It wasn’t some grand love story.
I thought I could make it work because of Sophie. Because I wanted to be the kind of dad who showed up.
But Vanessa was always chasing something else.
First, it was photography. Then digital marketing. Then brand coaching. Then “entrepreneur empowerment retreats.”
She built an audience fast—travel, style, aspirational lifestyle stuff—and she was good at it. Slick captions, glowing skin, those carefully curated moments that looked like presence but never really were.
She missed Sophie’s third-grade concert because she was speaking on a panel about “authentic connection.”
The irony still makes my teeth clench. I can still see Sophie onstage, craning her neck toward the back row every time the door opened.
She forgot her ninth birthday entirely. I covered for her. Took Sophie to the zoo. Told her her mom sent the flowers late.
She was always saying “this opportunity could be huge.”
But huge for who?
When she cheated three years ago, it was almost a relief. The final straw I needed to walk away.
Not that I told Sophie.
She just knows her mom and I didn’t work. That we grew apart. That sometimes people who care about each other can’t stay together.
I told her the sanitized version. The one that wouldn’t make her question everything.
Because the truth?
The truth would hurt more than it would help.
And I’d take the hit a thousand times before letting her carry it.
I stare at Vanessa’s thumbs-up reply until the screen goes dark.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and exhale slow, steady. My knee throbs beneath the brace, a dull reminder of everything that’s out of my control right now.
But I can at least control this:
I’ll be at that musical.
Front row. Flowers in hand. Camera ready.
Even if Vanessa flakes, Sophie will look out and see me.
