The moment Phuong Le’s face appeared on the phone screen, I felt my entire body freeze.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

My mother looked away.

Luc Xuyen lowered his eyes.

And Du Du, my own daughter, stood beside the table holding the phone with both hands.

“Dad?”

Her voice was small.

Not angry.

Not excited.

Just careful.

That hurt more than anger ever could.

Because children only become this careful when they have learned not to expect too much.

Phuong Le looked surprised when she saw me sitting there.

Her expression changed slightly.

But unlike the woman I remembered from our marriage, she did not look bitter.

She simply looked tired.

“Giang Tram.”

I forced myself to answer.

“Phuong Le.”

There was an awkward silence.

Lam Vy stood beside me, clearly confused.

She had heard stories about my past, but she had never met my ex-wife.

I always described my previous marriage as something that ended peacefully.

Two people who realized they were no longer suitable for each other.

A chapter that had already closed.

But at that moment, looking at Du Du standing beside Luc Xuyen, I realized I had been lying to myself.

The chapter was never closed.

I was just the only person who stopped reading it.

Phuong Le finally spoke.

“I didn’t know you would be there.”

I looked at Du Du.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the school change?”

My voice came out harsher than I intended.

Du Du immediately lowered her head.

Before she could answer, Luc Xuyen calmly said:

“Because she didn’t want to bother you.”

Those words struck me.

“Didn’t want to bother me?”

I looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

Luc Xuyen didn’t avoid my eyes.

“It means every time Du Du wanted to call you, she asked her mother first.”

My fingers tightened.

“And?”

“And she always stopped after seeing your photos online.”

My heart sank.

“What photos?”

Luc Xuyen looked at Lam Vy.

Then at me.

“Photos of you traveling with your new family.”

Nobody said anything.

But I understood.

The pictures.

The dinners.

The vacations.

The moments when I proudly showed everyone that I had finally found happiness.

I had never thought about how those images looked through my daughter’s eyes.

To me, they were memories.

To her…

Maybe they were proof that I had built a new life without her.

Du Du suddenly tugged Luc Xuyen’s sleeve.

“Uncle Xuyen, don’t say anymore.”

That sentence almost broke me.

Uncle.

Not Dad.

Not someone important.

Just Uncle.

I looked at the little girl standing there.

The same child who used to run toward me whenever I opened the door.

The same child who cried when I left for business trips.

The same child who once asked me:

“Dad, if you have another family someday, will you still love me?”

I remembered my answer.

“Of course. You will always be my first.”

But promises mean nothing when actions disappear.

My mother suddenly spoke.

“Giang Tram, do you know why Du Du moved schools?”

I looked at her.

She hesitated.

Then she said:

“Because she was always waiting for you.”

The restaurant became silent.

“She thought maybe if she went to a school closer to your company, she could see you more.”

My breathing stopped.

“She didn’t tell me.”

My mother smiled sadly.

“Because she is afraid you will think she is asking for too much.”

I looked at Du Du.

She immediately looked away.

At that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Shame.

Not because I had divorced Phuong Le.

Not because I had remarried.

But because I had allowed my daughter to slowly disappear from my life while convincing myself I was still a good father.

Lam Vy gently touched my arm.

“Husband…”

I turned.

She looked at me.

There was no jealousy.

No anger.

Only understanding.

“Maybe you should talk to Du Du.”

I was surprised.

I expected discomfort.

After all, Du Du was my past.

A reminder of a life before her.

But Lam Vy simply stepped back.

“She is your daughter.”

Those four words made my heart ache.

Because someone who had known me for only a few years understood my responsibility better than I did.

I walked toward Du Du.

“Du Du.”

She looked up.

“Yes?”

I swallowed.

“I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes widened.

Children rarely hear adults admit they are wrong.

“I should have visited more.”

She didn’t answer.

“I should have called more.”

Still silent.

“I should have known your school, your grades, your favorite things…”

My voice became softer.

“But I didn’t.”

A tear slowly appeared in her eyes.

Yet she quickly wiped it away.

“It’s okay, Dad.”

Those words hurt the most.

Because she said them like an adult.

Like someone who had already accepted disappointment.

“Mom said you are busy.”

I looked at Phuong Le.

She lowered her head.

She never blamed me.

She never told Du Du that I abandoned her.

She protected my image.

Even after our marriage ended.

And suddenly I realized something.

The woman I thought had moved on was the one who carried everything I left behind.

Later that night, after everyone left, I sat alone in my car.

My phone showed two unread messages.

One from Lam Vy.

“Take your time. Talk to Du Du. I’ll wait.”

The other was from Luc Xuyen.

“Giang Tram, there is something you need to know.”

I stared at the screen.

Then another message appeared.

“Du Du isn’t my daughter.”

My heart stopped.

The next line appeared slowly.

“But I have raised her for the past year because you weren’t there.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Then came the final message.

“The reason she calls me Uncle Xuyen…”

A pause.

“…is because she has been waiting for the day you would finally come back and call her your daughter again.”

I looked at the dark road ahead.

For the first time after my divorce, I realized something terrifying.

I hadn’t lost my marriage.

I hadn’t lost my family.

I had lost something much more precious.

I had lost time with my daughter.

And time was the one thing nobody could ever give back.