Father’s Day was supposed to be a day of predictable comforts—pancakes dripping with maple syrup, the scratchy texture of a handmade card, and the quiet satisfaction of a slow Sunday at home. I had envisioned a day that followed the traditional script of fatherhood, a celebration of the stable, unwavering life I had built for my five-year-old daughter, Lily. But three days before the holiday, while the afternoon sun was casting long, golden rectangles across the kitchen table, the script was abruptly torn to pieces. Lily was coloring a picture of a house, her tongue poking out in concentration, when…
