Page 100 of Who's Your Daddy?

“Shit, I’m sorry. I was sure you had that one in the bag. What qualifications are they talking about, though? That one just required a high school diploma.”

“I’m not sure. They didn’t give me any details.”

But she knew exactly why she didn’t get it. She just chose not to tell me. And that was something she did all the time. Like, that night I brought her home after Dylan’s bachelor party, we spoke about her dad.

“It sounds like you really miss your dad.”

“I miss him so much.”

“Why don’t you just reach out to him? I don’t know what happened between you two, but maybe you should give him a call...and try to talk it out.”

“Peter...” Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but again, she reconsidered. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because...no matter how hard I try, my dad will always be out of reach to me.”

The butterfly she painted on the crib was another sign.

“My mom always used to tell me that a butterfly in the house isn’t just a butterfly. It’s the spirit of our ancestors saying hi. She used to have this bracelet with this beautiful clasp. Her mother gave it to her on her deathbed as a reminder that she’d always be with her. My mom told me that when she leaves this earth, I could have it, and that way she could always be with me.”

She was so tearful when she told me that, even more so when she told me it got lost. Why didn’t I question it more?

And even that day she cried after watchingFinding Nemo. I thought she was emotional because of her pregnancy hormones, but it was because that movie resonated with her, reminding her of her own parents and her own loss.

Fuck, why didn’t she just tell me? What reason could there possibly be to lie about such arbitrary information? Is she just a pathological liar? Does she just build all her relationships on a web of lies?

Unfortunately, my refrigerator’s powers are limited. It is merely a mystical time warp machine, not an oracle. It can only provide me with the memories to conjure up these questions, but it can’t give me any of the answers.

My thoughts are interrupted when Cat opens the fridge door to pack away the lettuce and tomatoes.

“I thought it was Dylan’s turn today,” I say.

She pretends to be confused by my observation. “What are you talking about? We don’t take turns.”

“Every Wednesday and Saturday, one of you will come over with food or groceries or whatever you think I need. Dylan and Isa do Wednesdays. You and Scott do Saturdays. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Her shoulders slump in defeat. “We worry about you, Pete. You’re not eating. You’re barely sleeping. I don’t even know if you shower anymore.”

“Of course, I shower.”

“Well, you don’t look like it. Have you done anything besides mope since the last time I saw you?”

“I did, actually. On Monday, I threw all of Lia’s clothes out.”

“Out, as in you threw them out in the trash?”

“No, out as in I put them into trash bags, which had a nice symmetry to it because that’s how they came in here, but there were so many that I got lazy and just sort of...put them in the guest bedroom across the hall from the nursery.”

She raises an eyebrow and sighs her disappointment. “Do you not see that you’re slipping further into depression? You don’t even go out anymore. You only leave the house to go to the gym with Dylan and Scott. But the rest of the time you just sit here, rotting away in front of this fridge.”

“That’s not true,” I reply, shaking my head. “I went out last night.”

“Oh, really?” she asks, her tone rife with skepticism.

“Yes. And I met an incredibly beautiful woman. Sexy. Funny. Sweet.”

“Name?”

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