swells. I instruct myself
to remember that advice
whenever I happen to sense
confrontation, or feel the
urge to turn tail and run.
Today confrontation
is immediate, the instant
Dad lurches through
the front door. Hi, honey,
I’m home. The joke falters.
And then he catches sight
of Leigh. Oh my God.
It can’t be my little Layla.
You really grew into
a beauty…. He pauses,
waiting for some response.
Nothing. Can I have a hug?
Out come Leigh’s claws.
I don’t hug strangers.
Who the hell are you?
Her face contorts, a
subconscious effort to
make itself less beautiful.
It fails. I steel myself
for a lob of curses, but
Heather refuses to let
the verbal battle begin.
She walks over to Dad,
extends a hand, and tries
(obviously so) not to inhale