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My name is Joren, and this is about Fiona—my daughter, my light, my world.
At five, she’s a ball of energy. She asks the funniest questions, gets into every corner of the house, and her laughter could lift the darkest day. Lina, my wife, and I often look at her and think: how did we get so lucky?
That’s why what happened last week cut so deep.
It began with hair.
Months ago, Fiona suddenly refused to let us trim or even properly brush her curls. She would sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, clutching her hair like it was part of her identity.
“No, Daddy,” she said once, with unusual seriousness for a child her age. “I want long hair.”
We figured it was just a phase. Kids are particular about strange things. Maybe it was rebellion against Lina’s short haircut—her grandmother, Maris, often sniped that Lina’s style wasn’t “ladylike.”
So we shrugged. If Fiona wanted long hair, fine.
But then came the gum.
One night during movie time, Fiona fell asleep on the couch with a piece of gum in her mouth. By morning, it was tangled into a sticky mess at the back of her head. Lina and I tried every home remedy—peanut butter, ice, even vinegar—but nothing worked.
We had no choice but to cut it out.
Lina knelt in front of her with scissors, voice gentle. “Honey, we just need to snip a little where the gum is. It won’t hurt.”
What happened next stopped us cold.
Fiona bolted upright, clinging to her hair like a lifeline. Her eyes widened in panic.
“No!” she cried. “You can’t cut it! I need it so my real daddy knows me when he comes back!”
The words hit me like a hammer.
“Your… real daddy?” My voice cracked as I crouched beside her.
Fiona’s chin trembled, tears spilling down her cheeks. She whispered, “Grandma said so.”
Lina’s head snapped up. “What did she say, sweetheart?”
Fiona sniffled, her small fingers tightening around her curls. “She said my true dad went away, but he’ll come back for me. If I don’t have long hair, he won’t recognize me. And… and I mustn’t tell you, or you’ll be mad.”
My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.
“Honey,” I said softly, touching her hand, “I’m your daddy. I always have been. No one is taking that away.”
But inside, questions clawed at me. Why would Maris tell her that? Who was she talking about?
That night, after we finally calmed Fiona and put her to bed, Lina and I sat in silence on the couch. She stared at the floor, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
“What was she thinking?” Lina whispered.
I clenched my fists. “She’s gone too far. Tomorrow, we confront her.”
The next morning, Lina called Maris over. She arrived breezily, acting as though nothing was wrong. But the moment she stepped inside, Lina snapped.
“Mom, why did you tell Fiona Joren isn’t her father?” Her voice shook with rage.
Maris blinked, then scoffed. “You’re overreacting. It was just a little story.”
“A story?” I cut in. “She’s been terrified of cutting her hair for months because of your story.”
Maris rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I only wanted her to look feminine. A little girl shouldn’t copy your short haircut, Lina.”
Lina’s jaw dropped. “So you lied to her? Made her doubt her father—just for hair? Do you hear how insane that sounds?”
Maris waved a dismissive hand. “She won’t even remember. But she would remember looking silly in pictures with a boyish cut.”
I felt my temper snap. “This isn’t about pictures. You made my daughter believe I’m not her dad. That’s not harmless—that’s cruel.”
And then Maris said something that froze the room.
“With Lina’s past, are you so sure she’s really yours?”
Silence.
The words hung heavy in the air. Lina’s face went pale. For a moment, even I couldn’t breathe.
Then Lina’s voice, sharp as broken glass: “Get out.” She pointed to the door. “Leave. Now.”
Maris stammered an apology, backpedaling. But I was done listening. I opened the door wide.
“Go,” I said flatly.
She muttered something under her breath as she left, but I didn’t care. The slam of the door behind her was the only sound I needed.
That evening, Lina and I sat Fiona down. I held her little hands in mine and looked her in the eye.
“Fiona, listen carefully,” I said. “I am your dad. I always have been. I always will be. Grandma was wrong to say otherwise.”
Her small brow furrowed. “You’re my real dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” I smiled, though my chest ached. “Always.”
Lina brushed a tear from Fiona’s cheek. “None of this was your fault. You are loved. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Slowly, Fiona nodded.
She was still nervous when Lina carefully snipped out the gum that night.
“Do we have to?” she asked timidly, clutching her hair.
“Just a tiny bit,” Lina said softly. “It’ll grow back faster than you think.”
Fiona hesitated, then whispered, “Okay. But when it grows back… can it be pink?”
Lina and I laughed through our tears. “If you want it pink, it’ll be pink,” I said, ruffling her curls.
In the days that followed, Fiona relaxed again. She even asked Lina to braid her hair—something she hadn’t allowed in months.
But the truth remained: Maris had crossed a line we couldn’t ignore. Until she admitted her mistake and earned back our trust, she would not be part of Fiona’s life.
Because protecting our daughter—her happiness, her trust, her sense of belonging—will always come first.
And I’ll never let anyone, not even family, make her doubt that I am, and always will be, her father.