My Biological Father Left Us When I Was Three – Then Reappeared on My 17th Birthday to Outshine My Stepdad With His Present
"No."
"What?"
"It won't."
I nodded toward it.
"You're taking it with you."
He did.
He ripped the bow off first.
I don't know why that detail stayed with me.
Maybe because it was the first thing he'd done all day that wasn't for an audience.
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He threw it into the back seat, got behind the wheel, and drove away.
The neighbors suddenly became very interested in their own yards.
Mom went inside.
I turned toward Ray.
He was already walking away.
"Where are you going?"
"Kitchen."
"Why?"
"Dishes."
Of course.
Ten minutes after my biological father tried to buy his way back into my life, Ray was standing at our sink washing syrup off birthday-breakfast plates.
I put the wooden box on the counter.
"You know we have a dishwasher."
"Don't trust it."
"You repaired it."
"Exactly. I know who repaired it."
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I stood beside him.
"Ray."
