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He was probably married with kids and a dog and… and everything.
How would she stack up?
Glancing at her clothes she second-guessed her choices. Skinny jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and camo jacket no longer seemed appropriate.
He probably had a daughter who wore that Lily Pulitzer shit and had her nails done at a salon once a week. Or maybe she wore those exorbitantly overpriced T-shirts called Simply Southern, that all the rich-bitch girls wore at her school when they had plans to attend a country music concert or wanted to appear earthy and grounded.
Sure, she was the daughter of mega-rich parents, but as opposed to the daughter-bot her bio-dad had probably raised, she was grounded... and earthy. Earth conscious anyway.
Mature.
A straight “A” student.
Refusing to surround herself with friends at school who were more interested in the season’s new Gucci clutch than the fact they consumed what was once living breathing animals, she became morally outraged at her imaginary half sister’s irresponsible, meat-eating upbringing.
While her bio-dad allowed his daughter to drink water out of plastic containers and put their leftovers in plastic bags, polluting the earth, she had been given a weekly chore list by her fanatical mother who’d insisted she learn to take care of her own shit.
Breathing heavily, she put her hands on her hips and pulled in a deep breath, counting to four and then releasing it. A breathing technique she learned from her yoga instructor.
Which wasn’t entitled at all, as her mom would only pay for her weekly sessions as long as she kept her grades up.
The second round of measured breathing earned her a moment of clarity.
Maybe she was making the same mistake, harboring expectations about the type of house he lived in as to how he raised his children. She needed to stop assuming outcomes and start being open to whatever reality was presented to her.
See how she did that?
Maturity at its finest.
Slowly turning back toward the ridiculously cheerful door that made her want to hit something, she marched back up the steps of the perfectly maintained porch, conflicted between psyching herself up and psyching herself out.
Taking one last cleansing breath, murmuring “namaste” to herself, she lifted her hand and rang the death knoll… um, doorbell.
“Don’t be home. Don’t be home. Don’t be home.”
Maybe she should leave?
She was clearly suffering from a serious medical condition as her heart was pounding away in her throat. She coughed in her fist, trying to dislodge the foreign entity. Maybe she should find the closest urgent care?
Then the door opened and there stood her father. Sorry, bio-dad.
In what looked to be a uniform with official-like patches sewn on the arm and a face that was about a hundred years too old.
“Can I help you?”
What should she say?
Crap.
Maybe she should have thought of what her first words to her bio-dad would be instead of making up stories in her head about him and his pretend family?
But this guy was seriously old. What was her mom thinking?
She then noticed the words “Fire Department” on the arm patch.
Did her mom have an illicit affair with a firefighter back in the day?
Wait, even fifteen years ago this guy would be “too old.” That wasn’t cool, that was… illegal.
