My foot slipped on the brake! We came to a sudden stop.
“Your…real dad?” I asked.
She was trembling, her curls bouncing.
“Yes! He comes over when you’re at work,” she said.
I struggled to comprehend what she was saying and simultaneously felt a pang of denial. I turned around, looked at her, and replied, “Maybe you’ve got something mixed up, sweetheart.”
“Uh, uh,” she said.
“He comes all the time and brings me nice things like chocolate, and we have tea parties. Mom sometimes cooks for him, and you know him. He told me he’s my real dad.”
