Chapter 6: The Real Family

The second year, Natalie came home late again, her eyes red, as if she had suffered some grievance. I wanted to ask, but Natalie shut me out of the bedroom.

I stood in the hallway, hand on the door, the sound of her quiet sobs muffled by the wood. My chest tightened with worry and confusion.

Through the door, she said:

"Let me be alone for a while, okay?"

Her voice was strained, almost pleading. I didn’t know what to do, so I shuffled away, feeling useless.

Her tone left no room for argument.

I knew better than to push. When Natalie wanted space, there was no changing her mind. I sat on the couch, staring at the silent TV.

The next day, I found out she was pregnant.

She left the test on the bathroom sink, no note, no announcement. Just the fact staring up at me. I wanted to celebrate, to hold her, but she brushed past me, barely acknowledging the news.

At the time, I thought she was crying tears of joy. But now I know she felt dirty, sorry to Ryan.

All the excitement I felt back then curdled into something sour. I realized she’d been mourning—not celebrating—a future she’d lost with someone else.

And her wish to have Ryan’s child was shattered.

I’d thought Lily was a miracle. Now it felt like a compromise.

The third year, the fourth year, all the same. I never spent an anniversary together with Natalie. She was always absent, but I still prepared surprises every time.

The traditions continued—reservations made, gifts wrapped, phone calls unanswered. I told myself it was the thought that counted, that someday it would matter to her.

I was like a clown.

A one-man show, performing for an empty theater. No applause, just the echo of my own footsteps.

I thought I would move Natalie, but in the end, I was the only one moved.

Each year I told myself she’d see how much I cared. Each year, the silence proved me wrong.

But I should have realized from the first year—if someone doesn’t care, there’s no point in trying so hard.

Regret settled in my bones. I wanted to go back, to shake my younger self and tell him to wake up.

After going abroad, I stayed at the hotel arranged by the company. The hotel was nice, and our boss was generous, never stingy with these things.

The Marriott in the city center—king-sized beds, plush carpets, free breakfast. It was nicer than my apartment back home.

The hotel had a heated pool, a gym, delicious buffets, and floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere.

At night, the city lights glittered beyond the glass. The lobby smelled of coffee and fresh flowers. I tried to enjoy it, but the emptiness followed me everywhere.

As I passed the restaurant with my luggage, I saw three people sitting by the window.

The scene stopped me cold. I recognized the shape of Natalie’s shoulders, the curve of Lily’s hair, even from across the room. My heart hammered in my chest.

A strange man, and two familiar people.

He was feeding Lily, spoonful by spoonful, a gentle smile on his lips. Natalie sat across, laughing at something he said, her eyes warmer than I’d ever seen them at home.

The girl was in the man’s arms, being fed bite by bite. The woman sat across from them, smiling, her eyes so gentle they seemed to melt.

It was a portrait of happiness, a scene out of a Hallmark movie. Except I was on the outside, looking in.

I froze.

My suitcase thudded to the floor. I ducked behind a pillar, shame and fury warring inside me.

Because that was my wife and my daughter.

There was no mistaking them—Natalie’s familiar tilt of the head, Lily’s high-pitched giggle. The sight was like a punch to the chest.

We rarely went out together. I had told Natalie that Lily was already three, and the three of us should at least go to an amusement park.

I’d begged her to take a weekend trip, to Disneyland or even just the county fair. She always refused—too busy, too tired, too something.

But Natalie said:

"You don’t know how to look after kids, and I don’t have time."

She’d say it without looking up from her phone, her tone final. I believed her. I let it go.

Natalie was brief and to the point. Thinking back, every time I wanted to hold Lily, Natalie would push me away.

If I tried to play with Lily, she’d gently redirect her to another activity or scoop her up herself. I thought she was just being cautious.

I used to think Natalie was afraid I’d hurt Lily because I was rough, but now I understand.

It wasn’t about me being clumsy. It was about keeping me at arm’s length—from both of them.

Natalie was afraid I’d taint her little replica.

I saw it now—she wanted Lily to be untouched by me, a perfect mirror of her own lost love.

But Ryan could hold her whenever and however he wanted.

He scooped Lily into his lap, wiped her face, made her laugh. Natalie’s eyes softened whenever she looked at him. I felt invisible.

This was also the first time I saw Natalie smile like that.

Her whole face lit up, dimples showing, eyes crinkling. I’d never seen her look that alive—not once in five years.

So, Natalie really wasn’t naturally cold.

It wasn’t her nature; it was her choice—with me, at least.

At this moment, the three of them looked like a happy family. Ryan had soup at the corner of his mouth, and Natalie gently wiped it away with a napkin. Ryan gave her a grateful look.

They moved in sync, finishing each other’s gestures. It was like watching a home movie from someone else’s life.

Lily looked at Natalie, then at Ryan. Through the window, I saw Lily’s lips form the word "dad."

Time stopped. The word hung in the air, sharp and final. My knees threatened to buckle.

I froze. This scene was like a blade twisting in my heart.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. I felt cold, then hot, then cold again. It hurt to breathe.

Ryan is "dad"—so what am I?

The question echoed in my head, taunting me. Was I ever anything more than a stand-in?

The funny thing is, Lily always rejected me too. When I tried to get close to her, she pushed me away, crying for Natalie.

She’d cling to Natalie’s leg, hide her face from me, wailing if I tried to hug her. I told myself it was just a phase.

I tried to tell her stories, but she hid under the covers, full of resistance.

Even at bedtime, when I offered to read her favorites, she’d burrow under her blanket, shutting me out. My words bounced off, never reaching her.

I asked Natalie what was wrong with Lily, why she wouldn’t get close to me. Natalie said:

"You’re too busy, never care for the child. It’s normal for her to feel distant."

Her voice was clinical, as if she were diagnosing a patient. I tried to protest, but she always cut me off.

I was speechless.

There was no winning. Every attempt to be a better father was met with a wall.

A deep sense of guilt arose in my heart.

I started to believe her—that I was the problem, that if I just tried harder, things would change.

But in fact, everything I tried to do to make it up to Lily was blocked by Natalie. I never had a chance.

Looking back, I realized every attempt to bridge the gap had been undermined before it even began.