Mike stopped eating.
He looked at my daughter for a long moment before answering.
“Emma, your real father should be the one escorting you that night.”
My daughter’s face went pale.
“But my real father hasn’t even called me in six years.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m not your father,” Mike replied.
I felt my heart tighten.
Emma tried to smile.
“Okay. I understand.”
She stood up and went upstairs to her bedroom.
That night, I could hear her crying behind her closed door.
Meanwhile, Mike sat watching television as though nothing had happened.
The next morning, Emma approached me.
“Mom, could you ask Grandpa to walk with me instead?”
My father, George, was 81 years old. After spending most of his life working on a farm, he had difficulty walking. He could barely get around without his wooden cane.
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