You still ate them,” he said.
“Of course I ate them. I was afraid you’d make me eat oatmeal if I complained.”
Frank had married my mother when I was four.
In the beginning, I refused to call him anythingNot Frank.
Not Dad.
Nothing at all.
If he asked whether I wanted toast, I simply pointed toward the bread.
If he offered to read to me before bed, I disappeared beneath the covers.
My biological father had vanished before I was old enough to remember him, and even at four,
