Standing at the edge of the water, I listened as my daughter, Clara, introduced herself to a girl who was swimming nearby. After complimenting the girl’s swimsuit and pointing out her “sometimes annoying brother,” she turned and said, “That’s my father. He’s a teacher and an author.”
Then she turned back and whispered, a little too loudly, “I know. He doesn’t look like an author. Does he?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
My face wouldn’t fit into a collage like this?
I won’t be dedicating another book to her anytime soon.
