My five-year-old son, Eli, bounded through the door after a weekend with my sister, Lily, and blurted out, *"Guess what me and my other dad did!"*  

At first, I laughed—until I realized he wasn’t playing make-believe.  

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And when I discovered Lily had been keeping a secret, my world shifted.  

Lily had always been my anchor. After Eli was born, she showed up in the dead of night with homemade soup, rocked him through fevers, and gave me precious weekends to rest. It became our routine: every Saturday, she’d sweep him away for adventures.  

But that day, his innocent words sent a chill through me.  

Eli had never met his real father—Trent had vanished before I even knew I was pregnant. I had never told him.  

So who was this *"other dad"*?  

When Eli confirmed Lily knew him, I decided to follow them the next weekend.  

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At the park, I saw them—Lily, Eli, and a man in a cap and sunglasses, laughing together like a perfect little family. My stomach dropped.  

Hours later, when they returned, I was waiting. And then I saw his face.  

*Trent.* Older, leaner—but undeniably him.  

Lily confessed she’d reached out to him. Trent swore he never knew about the pregnancy—he just wanted to know his son. She thought she was helping, easing him into Eli’s life slowly.  

Betrayal burned through me, but when Eli looked up and asked, *"Can I see him again?"*—I couldn’t bring myself to refuse.  

That night, I called Trent. *"I won’t forgive you overnight,"* I said. *"But if we do this—we do it together. Slowly."*  

Trust can shatter in an instant. But sometimes, if you’re willing, the pieces can still find their way back together.