Chapter 1

"Ellie, I need you to call me 'uncle' today, and have Max call me 'dad'."

At the parent-teacher conference, Dad said this with one hand on my shoulder and the other holding my classmate Max's hand.

"Why?" I asked.

"Max doesn't have a father." He spoke quickly. "He's in a difficult situation. Just help me out today—let him call me dad, and you call me uncle. Understand?"

I didn't say anything. I just watched his lips move.

"It's settled then." Dad patted my shoulder.

Max's mom walked over, tissue in hand, her eyes red.

"Ellie's such a good girl, aren't you? Help Max out."

Dad's hand left my shoulder, his eyes full of urgency.

Those three words were like a switch—suddenly my mind flooded with images.

The first time was my seventh birthday. I waited with the strawberry cake Mom baked until midnight. Seven candles burned down to black stubs, wax dripping onto the top strawberry, as red as the blood from when I scraped my knee last time.

When he came home, he smelled like hospital disinfectant. He said, "Max had a fever. Mrs. Rivera couldn't handle it alone. You're a good girl—we'll celebrate your birthday another time." I said okay and picked off that wax-covered strawberry and threw it away. It tasted sweet and bitter at the same time.

The second time was right after he bought me a pink bicycle. I could barely ride two meters, wobbling all over, and before I could call him to watch, Mrs. Rivera's call came through.

He lifted me off the seat, put me on the curb steps, and pushed the bike to Max who came running over. "You're older, so be nice to your little brother. He can't ride yet—I'll teach him first."

I squatted on the steps counting ants. By the 127th ant, he finally came back. The little bell I'd saved half a month's allowance to buy was gone from the handlebars. He said, "Max liked it, so I gave it to him. I'll buy you a new one next time."

The third time was the parent-child craft competition. We spent half a month gluing together a starry castle, and I placed every single sequin on the windows myself.

He said he'd turn it in to the teacher for me. Then I saw the castle displayed in first place at the school exhibition hall with Max's name on it.

He crouched down and touched my head. "Max needs this to get his achievement award. You're a good girl—let him have it. Next time Dad will make you an even bigger one."

Every time it was the same. He said I was a good girl, so I should let Max have what was mine.

I looked up at him, then at Max hiding behind him, and nodded. My voice was just loud enough for the three of them to hear: "Okay, Uncle."

Dad visibly relaxed, smiling as he patted my head, then took Max's hand. "Max, let's go. Dad will take you inside."

Max jumped high, waving his Ultraman toy. "Dad, hurry! Let's sit in the front row!"

Max's mom followed them. She glanced back at me with a look that seemed like gratitude, but not quite.

Halfway through the conference, it was my turn to go onstage and read my excellent essay. I stood at the podium watching Dad in the first row peeling an orange for Max.

I opened my mouth. The essay I'd memorized perfectly—"My Dad is a Superhero Who Lifts Me Above His Head to Watch Fireworks"—not a single word would come out.

After standing there for half a minute, I said quietly, "I'm sorry. I forgot to bring my essay."

When I ran off the stage, my knee hit the corner of a table. The pain made me gasp.

The parent-teacher conference ended quickly.

We walked out of the kindergarten together. Max kept talking—about how the teacher praised him, how he got a gold star, how amazing his dad was.

Dad kept smiling.

At the intersection, Max's house was to the left, ours to the right.

When we got home, Mom came out of the kitchen wearing her apron. "How was the parent-teacher conference today?"

Dad let go of my hand. "It went well. Mrs. Rivera is raising her kid alone—it's not easy. I helped out today."

Mom looked at Dad for several seconds.

After dinner, Dad went to make a phone call.

He stood on the balcony, voice low, but I heard him say "it's okay," "it's what I should do," "raising a child alone isn't easy."

Mom washed dishes. I helped wipe the table.

"Mom," I said quietly. "Dad wasn't my dad today."

Mom's hands stopped. "What?"

Mom turned to look at me.

"Today at kindergarten, Dad was Max's dad."

I spoke slowly, each word clear, just like Dad had spoken this morning. "Dad made me call him uncle. He said Max could call him dad, and I had to call him uncle."

Mom's throat moved, like she was swallowing something.

Then she crouched down and hugged me. "Then from now on, Ellie will just call him uncle."