After Dad told me to call him uncle, Mom divorced him.

"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."

From that day on, the word "uncle" was carved into my tongue. It came out automatically. The first time was the next evening when the phone rang at home. I ran to answer it. The moment I said "hello," I heard Dad's voice through the receiver. "Ellie, Dad bought you—" "Hello, Uncle." I interrupted him, my voice flat, like reading words from a textbook. The other end went silent for a long time. "Ellie, what happened that day was wrong of Dad," his voice dropped. "But Max really..." "Uncle, are you looking for Mom?" I asked again, my finger twisting the phone cord. "Mom's hanging laundry." This silence lasted even longer. "Yes, I'm looking for your mom," he finally said. I put the receiver on the coffee table without hanging up and shouted toward the balcony: "Mom, Uncle's on the phone." I said "Uncle" extra clearly, enunciating each syllable like the kindergarten teacher taught us phonics. When Mom came over, she glanced at me, picked up the phone, said only two sentences, then hung up. "Your dad says he'll take you to the aquarium this weekend." Mom dried her hands and crouched down to look me in the eye. "It's Uncle," I corrected. Mom looked at me for a long time, then gently touched my face. "Right. Uncle." The second time was that weekend when Mom took me to the supermarket to buy yogurt. I was on tiptoe reaching for the peach-flavored yogurt on the top shelf when I heard a familiar voice nearby: "Max, slow down. Don't fall." I turned around and saw Dad pushing a shopping cart. Max sat inside holding an Ultraman toy bigger than himself, a lollipop in his mouth. When Dad saw me, his eyes lit up. He let go of the cart handle and walked toward me, reaching out to hug me. "Ellie, you're shopping too?" I took a step back and hid behind Mom, clutching her clothes and peeking out. My voice was just loud enough for the nearby aunts picking fruit to hear: "Hello, Uncle." The aunts' gazes immediately swept to Dad. They whispered to each other. I heard someone say quietly, "Isn't that the Johnson boy? Why is his own daughter calling him uncle?" Dad's face turned red instantly. His hand froze in midair, not knowing whether to advance or retreat. Max grabbed the cart railing and shouted at me: "Yeah! This is my dad! You're right to call him uncle!" Mrs. Rivera quickly came over and pulled Dad away, smiling awkwardly at my mom. "It's just me and Max. He's helping us carry things." Then she pushed the cart away quickly. I saw Dad look back at me several times, his expression terrible. The third time was Monday afternoon after school. I'd just walked out the school gate when I saw Dad waiting for me. When he saw me coming, he rushed over, holding up a beautifully wrapped box—the limited edition Elsa magic wand I'd begged him for months to buy. I used to remind him about it every day, saying I wanted it for the school cosplay competition. "Ellie, look what Dad bought you." He held the box out to me, his tone a bit pleading. "The one I promised to buy you. Your favorite." I stared at the box with Elsa's picture on it for three seconds, then shook my head. "Thank you, Uncle, but Mom already bought me one last week." Without waiting for him to respond, I ran across the street with my backpack. Mom was waiting for me at the bubble tea shop entrance, holding my favorite pearl milk tea. When I ran over, I glanced back. Dad was still standing there, holding the magic wand, like a forgotten scarecrow. After that, he came to wait at the school gate for several days in a row. Sometimes he brought strawberry cake, sometimes my favorite fried skewers. But each time I only said, "Thank you, Uncle, I don't want it," then turned and walked away. Until three days before the sports meet, he didn't bring any gifts. He just stood at the gate. His back was straight, like a kindergartener about to take a pledge. "Ellie," he crouched down, his hands pressing on my shoulders with some force. "Next week is the kindergarten sports meet. Dad will definitely be there. This time I'll only be your dad, only cheer for you. Okay?" His eyes were bright, almost frighteningly bright. "Dad swears." He held up three fingers like in TV shows. "If I'm lying, I'll... I'll turn into a puppy." I didn't say anything. I looked at the tiny reflection of myself in his eyes and nodded slightly. He smiled immediately and picked me up, spinning me around. "Then it's settled!" I nodded. I said quietly in my heart, I'll trust him one more time. If he really came this time, I'd call him Dad again.

The sun on sports meet day was so bright it hurt to look at. I stood under the sycamore tree by the school gate half an hour early, waiting. "Ellie, the parent-child relay race starts in ten minutes. Is your dad here yet?" The teacher walked over holding a starter pistol. I stood on tiptoe looking toward the intersection, my neck getting sore, and nodded hard. "He's coming!" But the gate was empty. The warm-up music started playing. All the children and parents held hands in a circle. I stood alone. The teacher came over and took my hand. "Ellie, let's do this with Ms. Wilson first, okay?" I nodded but kept my eyes on the gate. During the third section of warm-up exercises, I saw Dad. He was running in, carrying a plastic bag, his forehead covered in sweat. I almost jumped and waved at him. But the next second, I saw him run straight to Max. Max was sitting on the ground hugging his knees, crying. Mrs. Rivera was anxiously making a phone call nearby. Dad rushed over and crouched down, carefully examining Max's knee. I stood on tiptoe and saw a small red mark on Max's knee—probably just a scraped patch of skin. Dad pulled iodine and a band-aid from the plastic bag, his movements practiced like he'd done this a hundred times. He said something to Mrs. Rivera while treating the wound. Mrs. Rivera covered her mouth, her eyes red again. The teacher urged the parent-child relay participants to gather at the starting line. I stood in place, watching Dad fifty meters away gently blow on Max's knee, then scoop him up and walk toward the nurse's office. "Ellie Miller! It's your turn!" the teacher shouted beside me. I mechanically walked to the starting line. The referee teacher looked beside me. "Where's your parent?" "He..." I opened my mouth and saw the nurse's office door close. "Her parent is here." Mom's voice came from behind me. I whipped around and saw Mom running over, pulling an uncle I'd never seen before. Mom was out of breath, her hair a bit messy. "I'm sorry, Ellie. Mom's late." Mom crouched down and hugged me. Her arms were trembling. The uncle also crouched down, looking me in the eye. "You must be Ellie. I'm Liam. I'm your mom's friend. I just heard from your mom that you're in the relay race. I even borrowed matching clothes. Want to bring me along? I'm really fast—I won first place at my company sports meet last time." The teacher walked over just then, looking at Liam in surprise. "And you are?" I stared at the smile in Uncle Liam's eyes, then glanced at Dad who had just walked out of the nurse's office and was looking this way. Suddenly I raised my hand and pointed at Liam, my voice loud enough for the entire field to hear: "This is my dad!" Time seemed to freeze. Dad stood twenty meters away, frozen mid-step.

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