Yours, Stepdad
You are going to end up standing in a corridor at thirty-two weeks pregnant, holding a dishtowel, watching your father learn to play four notes of a song about you.
So I go in.
I do not knock, because that would be absurd, and because I have stopped standing outside rooms in this house.
Three faces come up.
"Move over," I say.
Marcus shifts along the bench. Richie stands and gets out of the way entirely and goes and sits on the sofa, which is his own small joke and which I clock and file.
I sit down next to my father.
"Show me," I say.
He does. Slowly, with tremendous care, his hands stiff and his glasses down his nose.
Hot Chapters