But then I found out he meant just his mother and the boys.
Lucy came into the kitchen, glowing with excitement, and asked if she could come too. Daniel looked at her and flatly said, “No, it’s for family only.” Her face dropped, and she went silent.
I asked him what he meant by that. His response? “She’s not mine. I’m not shelling out all that money to bring someone else’s kid.”
Later, Lucy came and sat on my bed, her voice barely above a whisper when she asked, “Mom… am I not part of our family?” Her words cracked, and she looked so small sitting there.
I was furious, but I didn’t want her to spend the weekend heartbroken. I told her to grab her shoes—we were going on our own trip.
I had a bit of money saved from dog walking gigs, so I packed us into my beat-up Subaru and we drove out to the state fair a few hours away.
At first, Lucy didn’t say much. She just stared out the window, hands folded, lost in her own world. My heart ached seeing her like that. I started making goofy jokes, pointing out silly billboards, singing old songs we used to love.
It wasn’t until I butchered the lyrics to “Brown Eyed Girl” that she finally cracked a smile. She giggled. And in that moment, I felt a little bit of her sadness lift.
When we got to the fair, it was like color rushed back into her world. Bright lights, the smell of fried dough, music playing all around us. I got her the biggest cotton candy I could find, and she asked if we could ride the Ferris wheel. I said yes before she even finished asking.
At the top of the ride, she leaned against me and whispered, “I love you, Mom.” Right then, I knew—whatever Daniel said, whatever he did—this girl was mine. And I would protect her with everything I had.
Later, Daniel called. He was all smiles, telling me how great a time he and the boys were having. Then he asked where we were. I told him we went to the fair. His tone changed instantly—cold, annoyed. He said I was being over the top, that I was teaching Lucy to be spoiled. I hung up before he could finish.
The next day, we visited a petting zoo. Lucy laughed and ran from one animal to the next—goats, baby pigs, she loved them all. A woman stopped me and said Lucy’s dress was adorable. Then she asked if she was my only child. I hesitated for a second before saying I had two sons as well, but Lucy was my oldest.
The woman seemed surprised I was out with just Lucy. It made me think about what other people must assume when they see us—this patched-together family that’s not quite whole in everyone’s eyes.
When we got home Sunday night, Daniel was waiting in the living room. The boys were already upstairs asleep, and his mom had gone home. He barely acknowledged Lucy as she walked past him.
And in that quiet moment, I knew—we were living in two very different definitions of family.