“Mommy, look at me, don’t I look like Daddy?”
“That’s nice honey.”
She keeps folding her family’s dirty laundry,
the man that isn’t “Daddy” still fresh on her mind.
The way he looks,
the way he smells,
the way he feels,
the way he tastes …
“Mommy, look.”
She should end it.
Soon.
Just a little longer.
She’s already been bad.
Why stop now?
Just as long as she can keep her two worlds separate,
all will be well:
she can have everything.
“Mommy, look at me.”
She gasps:
it’s not Daddy’s red tie around her son’s neck.