The last time Darren phoned or texted was weeks ago. But Father’s Day is approaching, and he wants to visit. I agree knowing Darren hasn’t phoned or texted in weeks. But Father’s Day is approaching, and he wants to visit. I agree, knowing he wants photos, not fatherhood. He is unaware that our daughter, in her innocence, made him a card with a truth he is not ready for. I could have stopped her. I didn’t. I’m letting the truth speak now.

After our divorce, Darren has approached fatherhood like a PR campaign.

He worships Emma on social media, but not the real Emma. Instead, it has carefully selected throwbacks, filtered selfies from two years ago, and Hallmark card-style captions.

“Forever your #1 fan, little one,” read the caption showing Emma blowing out cake candles. From her eighth birthday.

Ten years old.

The actual kicker? Darren hasn’t seen her in nearly six weeks. No text. No calls. No “How’s your piano recital?” “Good luck on your math test.” He’s a ghost unless he needs an online halo.

I received a text from him the Thursday before Father’s Day:

I might see Em on Father’s Day Sunday. 3 okay?”

I wasn’t mad. Not really. Just smiled.

Because the truth would appear this year.

As Emma organized jigsaw pieces on the coffee table that evening, I kept my tone neutral.

“Sweetie,” I kneeled beside her, “your dad wants to visit on Sunday. Dad wants to see you on Father’s Day.”

She froze. Wait a moment. “Really?”

I nodded. ‘He said 3’clock.

Emma rose and entered her room. She returned with a folded, crinkled white cardstock after some rustling. Marker hearts and a glittering sun half-colored it.

“I started making cards at school,” she added, thumbing the page. “Miss Daly required it. Mine was unfinished.”

Her gaze fell. “I had no idea what to write.”

My chest tightened. You don’t have to give him anything if you’re not ready, honey.

Emma stopped, then smiled with a cheeky grin I hadn’t seen in months. “No, I think I know what to say.”

She sat at the kitchen table with crayons, stickers, and that look. She sometimes requested me to cut or hold glitter glue while writing. I mostly watched her produce.

Her finished product was handed to me. Between hand-drawn stars and a construction-paper flower were strong purple crayon words:

Happy Father’s Day to my mom, who’s always there.

Swallowed a lump and clutched her tightly. “This card’s perfect,” I whispered.

Sunday, 2:58 p.m.

Darren’s silver SUV pulled into the driveway on time. He left looking like he was going to a movie premiere—pressed khakis, flawless grin, and a strong perfume scent.

But he had company.

A tall, blonde woman in a white sundress and wedge heels exuded “influencer energy.” Phone in hand.

Before they knocked, I opened the front door.

Darren said, “Hey,” with a phony smile. This is Courtney, my girlfriend. She wanted to meet Emma.”

Courtney waved distantly without looking.

Emma arrived at the door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, princess!” he said, half-hugging her and facing Courtney’s camera.

Already recording, Courtney’s phone hovered like a drone. I almost heard #bonusmom #blessed #daddydaughtertime.

“You got something for your dad?” Darren inquired, rubbing hands. “I bet you made another card.”

I smiled from the kitchen door. Emma, why not show your dad what you made?

Emma vanished down the corridor. Darren tidied his hair and collar.

“She’s so thoughtful,” Courtney cooed, filming.

Emma returned and handed Darren the card silently.

He opened it dramatically, facing the camera.

Let’s see what my little artist wrote this time—

Then quiet.

He examined the card’s interior. His grin broke. He frowned.

“Happy Father’s Day… to my mom—the one who’s always there,” he read out stiffly.

The resulting hush was choke-worthy. Courtney lowered her phone carefully.

Emma regarded him. Mom does everything dads should do, so I made it for her. Everything—homework, field trips, cooking. She mended my bike last week.”

Darren was transfixed, jaw clenched. Nothing could mend his ego in my living room, not even Courtney’s ring light.

He said, “Oh,” as if everything was over.

I chose Act Two.

“Oh, Darren,” I murmured pleasantly, removing a manila envelope from the drawer. “While you’re here:”

I gave him it.

He opened it and paled more.

A spreadsheet recording six months of unpaid child support, court summonses he disregarded, and my lawyer’s next steps letter were within.

Over his shoulder, Courtney read. “You said it was done.”

“It—it is,” he mumbled.

“No,” I answered calmly. This is being handled. Now.”

Courtney retreated completely. You promised to pay. She kept Emma from you!”

I stood and waited. Let the image disintegrate live.

Emma returned to the kitchen to get a cookie from our morning tray. She sat at the table bouncing her legs and eating if nothing had occurred.

Courtney faced Darren. “You forced me here? You wanted a Father’s Day film to improve your image but failed to notify me you’re violating a court order?

“I didn’t think she’d—” he began.

“You didn’t think, period,” she said.

Arms folded. “You two should probably leave. You have plenty to discuss.”

Courtney bolted without saying a thing. Still holding the sparkling, incriminating card, Darren followed.

They heard the door close softly.

Emma cuddled with me on the couch later that night.

“That okay?” she inquired. “What I said?”

I embraced her. Sweetheart, you were honest. That’s always fine.”

We baked cookies again tonight. I let her put more chocolate chips. We watched her favorite animated movie, laughed at the ridiculous moments, and didn’t mention her dad.

Tucked her in and kissed her forehead at bedtime.

Her fingers touched mine and she said, “You’re really all the parent I need.”

I felt seen more than any card or court verdict could.

Some dads bring cameras. Some arrive loving.

This time, glitter explained the story better than he could.