I trusted my ex-wife when she begged for full custody, promising I could see our daughter anytime. But when she started ignoring my calls, I drove to her house for answers only for her new husband to open the door, look me in the eye, and whisper, “There is no daughter.” I loved my wife. We met young, married fast, and within a year, we had a baby girl. She was perfect—tiny fingers, big brown eyes, and a giggle that could light up the darkest days. I remember holding her in the hospital, promising I’d always be there for her. Then, everything fell apart.

I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want our daughter to grow up in a bitter warzone. So I agreed. A month after the divorce, she remarried. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had my suspicions—late nights, secretive texts, a distance between us long before she asked for the divorce. But I never had proof. Now, I didn’t need it. I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach. Maybe she was happy. Maybe this man would be good to our daughter. At first, she kept her promise. I visited often, held my daughter in my arms, and felt like a father. But little by little, things changed. “She’s sick today,” my ex would say when I called.

Or: “We have plans, maybe next weekend.” Then, the texts started going unanswered. Calls rang and rang with no answer. One day, I showed up at the house. My hands shook as I knocked. She opened the door, her smile tight. “What are you doing here?” “I came to see my daughter.” She sighed. “You should’ve called first.” “I did. You didn’t answer.” “Well, she’s asleep now.” I knew she was lying. I could hear the TV inside, cartoons playing. My daughter’s laugh, faint but clear.

“I’ll wait.” Her expression hardened. “You’re making this difficult.” “No, you are,” I shot back. “I have a right to see her.” She exhaled sharply. “I don’t have time for this.” Then she slammed the door in my face. That was the beginning of the end. Weeks passed. I tried everything—texts, emails, even going through mutual friends. Nothing worked. I missed my daughter’s second birthday. Not by choice. I missed her first words, her first real steps. I felt like I was losing her. Then one night, sitting in my car outside their house, staring at the lights glowing through the curtains, I decided I had had enough.