“They’re just strangers, sweetheart,” I told her gently. “Just strangers asking some things. Nothing more.”

Her lips parted as though she wanted to ask more, but I didn’t give her the chance. I straightened and tugged her hand firmly. “Come on, Marga. Let’s go.”

She obeyed, though her head turned once, her innocent gaze catching Ezekiel for the briefest second. I caught the way his stare clung to us.

I didn’t look back. Not at him, not at Celeste, not at the ruins of a life I had buried. I pushed through the sliding doors, the whoosh of cold air rushing against us like release, and hurried her toward the car. My grip on her hand was steady, almost too tight, but I couldn’t help it. I had to get her away.

Only when we reached the car did her small voice break the silence.

“Mommy… that man… is he like my daddy?”

My hand froze on the car door. The words were fragile, almost whispered, but they crashed into me like a storm. I drew in a sharp breath, forcing myself to move, to open the door, to help her inside.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” I asked, keeping my tone soft as I buckled her seatbelt.

She avoided my eyes, clutching her stuffed bunny to her chest. “I mean… if my daddy is old like him. Is he the same age?”

I swallowed hard. The steering wheel felt icy under my grip. For a fleeting second, Ezekiel’s face flashed in my mind—the shock, the recognition, the questions swirling in his eyes.

I forced the image away.

“Don’t ask about your father, Marga,” I said softly but firmly. “Your father died a long time ago.”

Her small voice wavered from the back seat. “Okay, mommy. But why did that man look at me like he knows me?”

My chest tightened. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, afraid that if I looked back, I’d break. “Sometimes, people stare because they’re curious, sweetheart. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t know you.”

She hugged her bunny closer, her lower lip trembling. “Oh okay, I wish I did have a daddy. Everyone at school talks about theirs… and I don’t know what to say.”

The words pierced me deeper than any knife could. I clenched the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. “You don’t need to explain anything to anyone. You have me, and I’ll always be enough for you.”

There was a pause, the sound of her soft sniffles filling the car. Then her voice came again, small and almost breaking. “I know you love me, Mommy. But sometimes I wonder if my daddy would’ve loved me too.”

Tears stung my eyes, blurring the streetlights as we drove. I blinked them back fiercely, willing my voice to stay steady. “Of course he would have, Marga. Of course. But he’s not here, and wishing won’t change that. So promise me you won’t keep asking, okay?”

Her head dipped, curls falling into her face. “Okay, Mommy,” she whispered.

The silence that followed was heavier than before, filled with the ache of her longing and the bitterness of the lie I had forced between us.

The drive home stretched endlessly, my thoughts knotted, my chest hollow. Every glance in the rearview mirror showed me her reflection, her cheek pressed to the window, her little fingers curled around her bunny, her eyes glistening with questions she was too young to carry.

And then, finally, we pulled into the driveway.

Elijah was there.

He stood at the front steps, tall and steady, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand. The fading sunlight spilled over him, softening the sharpness of his jaw, casting a golden glow over the gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“Uncle Elijah!” Marga squealed, her little voice bursting with joy.

Her small legs carried her across the yard in a blur, bunny dangling forgotten in her grip, curls bouncing wildly. She launched herself into his arms with fearless trust, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

He dropped the flowers without hesitation, laughter spilling from him as he caught her and spun her once in the air. The sound of her laughter mixed with his deep chuckle, weaving a melody that wrapped around my heart.

I leaned against the car, frozen in place, watching. Something inside me twisted, sharp and unfamiliar.

Marga’s arms clung tight around his neck, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as if she never wanted to let go.

“I missed you!” she cried, voice brimming with sincerity.

Elijah smiled warmly, pressing his cheek against her curls. “I missed you too, princess. Did you behave for Mommy today?”

She nodded quickly, her little curls brushing against his chin. Then her voice softened, shy but determined. “Yes Uncle Elijah… can I ask you something?”

He adjusted her in his arms, giving her his full attention. “Of course, sweetheart. What is it?”

Her gaze searched his, eyes wide and hopeful. “Do you think… you could be like my daddy?”

The words shattered me.

I approached, keeping a careful distance, just enough so it didn’t feel too close or overwhelming. My voice was soft, tinged with hesitation.

“I’m sorry, Elijah. Marga… she’s just longing to have a father. I didn’t mean to make things complicated.”

He smiled, that warm, steady smile that made it impossible to feel anything harsh around him.

“Why not give me a chance to be Marga’s father?” he said lightly, shrugging, as if offering the idea was the simplest thing in the world.

I blinked, startled by how easy he made it sound. The corners of my mouth twitched, but my heart thumped too fast to trust it. I opened my mouth, ready to answer, but before I could, Marga piped up.

“Please, Mommy!” she said, her little curls bouncing as she ran a step closer to him. “Uncle Elijah can be my father!”

Her eyes were wide, full of hope and certainty, and I froze.