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This wasn’t a pop quiz. It was a rapid-fire inquisition. “I really don’t…” “What’s my favorite book?” “Scarlett, I’m sorry. I don’t know. But if you give it to me I can read it to you.” I held my hand out. I didn’t want to play this game anymore. It was making me feel horrible. “I know you’re not my mommy.” Ouch. “Yes I am. Sweetie, I’m right here.” She slowly sat up, reached out, and put her hands on both sides of my face. I didn’t know what to do, so I stayed completely still. She ran her little hands over my forehead. And nose. And lips. And chin. And scrutinized my whole face before moving her hands back to my cheeks. She squished her mouth to the side like she was thinking. “You look like my mommy,” she said. “And you sound like my mommy.” She shook her head. “But you’re not my
- Writer
