I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling I got whenever I looked at my father’s new wife, telling myself it was only jealousy. Little did I know that the truth would hit home closer than I anticipated.
Most people assumed I’d grown up lonely, being raised by parents who were already 53 when I arrived. They were wrong. My childhood was the softest, happiest, and brightest thing I owned. I still measure every good day against the ones I’d spent under my parents’ roof.
Penny, my mom, used to laugh with her whole body, throwing her head back. Ben, my dad, was quieter. He was a man who read the newspaper aloud at breakfast and pretended not to notice when I stole the crossword.
They were wrong.
They joked that other kids had young parents, but I had two people who’d already lived long enough to answer any question I’d ever ask.
***
