Chapter 5

On Tuesday evening, Lucy hummed a light tune she'd just learned while doing her homework. She seemed to be in a great mood.

If I hadn't known that she had waited up until falling asleep again last night—never getting to watch that video with Ethan—I would have thought everything was back to normal.

"Mom." She held up a flyer from school. "Teacher said tomorrow is Family Portrait Day. Everyone has to bring a family photo or draw a picture of their family."

I took the paper and scanned it. Near the bottom was a small line of print: Every family looks different, and every family belongs.

I couldn't help a small smile. It was classic teacher style—no right or wrong answers, and no rigid definition of what a "complete family" should look like.

Still, I asked instinctively, "Do you want to bring a photo, or draw one yourself?"

Lucy thought it over. "I want to draw it."

The next afternoon, I arrived at school early.

The hallways were already lined with the children's artwork. Some had drawn mom, dad, and a family pet; others had drawn just a mom and child; a few had drawn their grandmothers. Every drawing was delightfully wobbly, yet packed with a child's earnest effort.

Scanning the wall, I quickly found Lucy's name.

My steps froze.

There were three figures in the drawing: me, Lucy, and Ethan.

The three of us were holding hands, standing in front of a bright yellow house. A smiling sun hung in the sky, and a small dog bounced on the green lawn. Ethan's other hand rested gently on Lucy's shoulder, and the smile on his face was wide and warm—the image of the world's most devoted father.

A lump formed in my throat.

Because in reality, we had never owned a dog. We had never stood together on a lawn like that.

And Ethan had never... held Lucy's hand alongside mine like that.

"Mrs. Bennett?" Lucy's teacher walked over, smiling gently. "Lucy put so much heart into her drawing today."

She pointed toward the paper. "She even told me her dad's favorite thing is taking her to the park."

My heart sank instantly.

Unaware of my internal turmoil, the teacher continued warmly, "She said you guys go on picnics together every single weekend. It sounds so lovely."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Because I knew not a single word of those stories was true.

I remained quiet the entire drive home.

Lucy sat in the back, holding her backpack and swinging her legs contentedly. As we pulled near our street, I finally couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Lucy?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Your teacher said... you told everyone Dad takes you to the park all the time?"

She went quiet for a few seconds, her small hands clutching her seatbelt nervously. "...Yeah."

"But..." My voice trailed off into a whisper. "Dad has never taken you."

Lucy kept her head down, staying silent for a long moment. Just as I thought she wouldn't answer, she whispered softly, "I know."

I pulled over at a red light, stunned.

Lucy stared out the window, her voice barely audible. "Emma said her dad takes her bike riding every weekend. Oliver said his dad takes him camping."

She let out a soft snuffle. "When the teacher asked me, I didn't know what to say."

She turned her head and offered me a small smile—one that hurt far worse than seeing her cry.

"So... I just drew a day I wished we had."

Tears blurred my vision instantly.

That wasn't a family portrait. It was a wish list.

That evening, Ethan actually came home early for once.

The moment he sat down, Lucy ran over and proudly held her drawing up in front of him. "Daddy! Look what I drew today!"

Ethan took it with a smile. "Wow, this is great!" He looked closer at the details. "Who's this little dog?"

Lucy grinned. "That's our dog!"

Ethan blinked. "When did we get a dog?"

Lucy tilted her head, her smile bright and radiant. "We will in the future!"

Ethan laughed and ruffled her hair. "Alright. When Dad gets some free time, I'll take you to pick one out."

In the future. Free time. Always in the future.

Lucy hadn't lied to her class. She was simply living in those promised "futures."

Before going to bed, I went to organize Lucy's backpack.

The drawing slid out, revealing a short reflection prompt the teacher had asked the kids to write on the back. Written in wobbly, uneven handwriting was the title: My favorite family memory.

Beneath it was a single sentence:

I think it will happen someday.

I covered my mouth as tears spilled uncontrollably down my face.

My daughter hadn't fabricated a memory.

She had simply written down an unfulfilled dream as if it were the past.

And what terrified me most was that she still genuinely believed... that one day, her father would keep all those promises he had never honored.