The Fireman's Homecoming. Allie Pleiter
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pacifying an irate alpaca fleece supplier whose product had been mislabeled—twice—didn’t seem a match for what Dad had dumped on her, but Melba let the feisty energy of Charlotte’s hug soothe her soul. She cried on her friend’s go-to shoulder for a minute or so, then pushed her hair out of her eyes. “That was a monster of a problem, wasn’t it? This problem is a bit harder to solve, though. This bomb has...real damage potential.”
Charlotte sat up. “Okay, start at the beginning.”
Pulling her knees up to hug them, Melba let the words crawl out, small and vulnerable. “Well, you know Dad got pretty sick last week, and his mind sort of...short-circuited.”
“Good way to put it,” Charlotte sighed. “I always thought ‘dementia’ sounded so gruesome.”
“He said some things. One thing, actually, that was a big shocker.” Melba steeled herself with a deep breath, sure it would make the thing more awful to hear it spoken out loud. “He said...he said I wasn’t his.” There. She’d said it and not melted into the carpeting.
It took Charlotte a few excruciating moments to grasp what Melba was saying. “You mean, not his daughter? Biologically?”
Melba could only nod. It was so much more complicated than biology.
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