Owned By My Best Friend's Father
The way it all soured in an instant.
Sophie’s volcano sits drying on the kitchen table, a lumpy cone of papier-mache painted in hopeful red and orange.
She’s sixteen now, but she’s curled on the couch in her favorite oversized hoodie, knees tucked under her chin, eyes glued to the TV. Some new anime is playing with bright colors flashing, dramatic music swelling, and characters yelling about power levels. She’s obsessed. We argue about it constantly.
“It’s not a cartoon,” she always insists, rolling her eyes like I’m the one who doesn’t get it. “It’s anime. There’s a difference. Depth. Themes. Character arcs.”
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