“That is Daddy’s other mommy,” my five-year-old daughter Lily said, pointing her green glitter marker at the blue cardstock paper on our kitchen table. I laughed at first, because five-year-olds say things that do not make any sense.

We were a quiet family of three living in a modest suburb of Dayton, Ohio, and our life was regular, predictable, and very ordinary.

Lily was sitting in her favorite pink pajamas, kicking her legs under the table while she colored. She had drawn six figures on her school family tree project. Three of them were clearly our little family, but the other three were tucked away in the corner of the paper, drawn with a shaky hand but painted in bright, happy colors.

“Sweetie, who are the extra people?” I asked, setting down the kitchen towel I was holding. I figured she had drawn her friends from school or maybe her favorite cousins who lived in Indiana.

Lily did not even look up from her coloring. “That’s Daddy’s other mommy. And Emma. And baby Lucas. They live in the blue house with the big swing set.”

My chest felt slightly tight, but I swallowed the strange feeling. I told myself it was just a game. Children have secret worlds, imaginary friends, and complicated stories they build out of nothing. I kept cleaning the kitchen, but every few minutes my eyes would drift back to that blue cardstock paper on the table.

My husband Greg came home about an hour later. He tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl by the front door, his usual whistling filling the hallway. Greg worked as an independent remodeling contractor, a job that kept him busy at odd hours. He was always tired, but he was always sweet to Lily.

He kissed the top of her head before grabbing a glass of water.

“Look at Lily’s drawing,” I said, trying to keep my voice light and casual. “She says you have another family, Greg.”

Greg looked at the paper. He did not freeze. He did not look guilty. He just laughed, a warm, natural sound that made me feel foolish for even asking.