The Night I Learned What Real Fatherhood Looks Like

The Sleepless Nights

Ever since she was a baby, Xime had struggled with restless nights—crying in her sleep, waking in tears, sometimes wandering down the hallway still half dreaming. After my divorce, her fears seemed to grow. When Ricardo entered our lives, I hoped that the steady rhythm of his presence would calm her.

But even with his gentle patience, her nightmares didn’t stop. Some nights she’d wake trembling, whispering for me. Other times, she’d stare blankly ahead, caught somewhere between sleep and waking.

Then, one month ago, I began noticing something that made my heart pound harder than any bad dream.

Each night, sometime after midnight, Ricardo would slip quietly out of our bed. When I asked him where he went, he always said, “My back hurts, love. I’m just going to the sofa to stretch.”

It seemed reasonable, yet something in me stirred—a whisper of suspicion that refused to rest.

One night, unable to sleep, I walked to the living room. The sofa was empty. A light glowed faintly down the hall—from my daughter’s room.

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