Page 118 of Who's Your Daddy?

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

There’s silence for a minute before Scott pipes up again. “I’m still not understanding why you let her move in with you again.”

“Regardless of everything that’s happened between us, she’s his mother, Scott,” Peter says. “I can’t leave her out on the street. Ambrose is my priority forlife. Eventually, he’s gonna grow up, and if he finds out I treated his mother like that, what’s he gonna think of me? I’m a role model now. I gotta act like it.”

The kids are yelling in the background, but that doesn’t seem to inhibit their conversation.

“So, what’s the plan here? Are you just waiting for her to get a stable job and a decent place and then you’ll let her take him?”

“No, that’s not the plan at all. She’s not taking him. This is his home now. He stays with me.”

“You can’t just...keep him, Pete.” Dylan counters. “She has rights.”

“Then she’s gonna have to exercise those rights. If she wants him back, she’s gonna have to take me to court. She can’t afford a good lawyer, and even if she could, I’ve got a better one. I’ve already asked him about this, and he said all I need to do is tell the judge the story of how I got him in the first place and how she fucked off for four months...and viola. Case closed. He’s mine.”

My heart sinks when I hear that. After everything he’s done for me and Ambrose, taking him to court would be such a slap in the face. I would never do that to him, and it hurts to know that he’s already spoken to a lawyer because he thinks I’m capable of something like that. But that aside, the vitriol with which he speaks about me is so disheartening. It’s like I’m no one to him now, just a pest, an inconvenient burden he has to deal with.

Positive thoughts, I tell myself. I’m on Team Happy. And members of the team have enough mental fortitude to deal with this astronomical level of resentment and hostility.

Neymar scurries out of the kitchen at lightning speed and Dylan comes chasing after him a moment later. He halts in his tracks when he sees me, looking awkward because of the conversation they were just having about me. I hate that. I hate that I was finally starting to feel like I was part of their group of friends and now they all think I’m the scum of the earth.

They’ve made assumptions about me based on distorted versions of the truth, and I have no right of reply, no real defense because they’re never going to hear my side of the story. And even if they did, their loyalty lies with Peter.

“Oh, hey, Lia,” he says, sounding slightly nervous.

“Hi.” I force my voice up to sound more chipper than I feel. “I didn’t even know you guys were here. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He believes that, and his awkwardness level drops a notch. “Uh...we just got here. We’re taking the boys out fishing today, so we wanted to get an early start.”

I try to hide my disappointment. I was really hoping to spend quality time with Ambrose today, but I feel like I don’t have a say in my own son’s life.

“You fish?” I ask, peppering the conversation with pleasantries so that I don’t think about how much he must be judging me.

“Nah, this is new for all of us,” he replies while Neymar runs manic circles around him. “Pete keeps insisting this is something dads have to teach their boys, so...we’re all gonna learn. And hopefully, we’ll be half decent at it by the time they’re at the proper age to fish by themselves.”

Peter steps out of the kitchen. “Ready to go?” he asks Dylan without even glancing in my direction.

Guess those three nice words are all I’m going to get. Dylan’s still cordial, though. “We’ll probably be back in a couple hours.”

Scott says hello and goodbye as he passes me. The greeting is friendly but still strained. I steal a kiss from Ambrose before Peter walks away, and wave them off as the door closes in front of me.

I busy myself making chicken adobo and rice for lunch. I’m not really hungry, but I need something to pass the time. I clean my room and even give Tori a call, but the morning still seems to drag by. It’s almost noon when I hear excited gurgles echoing in the house. I rush downstairs but slow my steps when I reach the kitchen, so it’s not obvious that I was anxiously waiting for them to return.

“Hi,” I greet as I walk in.

“Hey,” Peter grumbles back with far less enthusiasm.

Ambrose is seated in his highchair, watching Peter as he stirs something in a pot.

“I made chicken for lunch if you’re hungry,” I offer.

“No thanks. I’m good.”

The rejection is subtle on the surface but cuts me so deep. It’s his way of going through life as if I’m not there, as if I don’t exist, as if my presence and everything I do are inconsequential. And that hurts like hell.

I ignore the comment, silently hoping that if it happens often enough, I’ll grow a thicker skin, and it won’t affect me as much. I walk over to Ambrose and hunch over to be at his eye level.

“And how about you? Are you hungry? I bet you are. You had a busy day. I’m sure you worked up an appetite.” I glance back over my shoulder at Peter. “How was his day out fishing?”

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