Three months into their marriage, I wandered into the kitchen one morning and called him Dad before I’d even decided to. He dropped the spatula. Neither of us said a word about it — he just slid the least-burnt pancake onto my plate, like that settled something.
Five months later, my mother was gone. An aneurysm took her so fast that the last real conversation we’d had was about whether I’d put my shoes away. The house filled up with relatives who whispered in the hallway and glanced at Frank like he was a stranger who’d wandered in. He isn’t her real father. Her aunt could take her. He’ll want his life back now.
The night after the funeral, I hid under the kitchen table with my knees against my chest. Frank found me there just before dawn. He didn’t ask why. He just lowered himself onto the floor beside me.
