The psychic at the Sonoma County Fair said Something’s wrong—you should have had two children by now. I was twenty-seven. One of us had screwed up. But who cares? My phantom children are a joy. My phantom daughter discovered the cure for cancer. My phantom boy has danced for Balanchine. He’s been Pierre Gagnaire’s sous-chef. And if it turns out that my two phantom sons operate a stash house for the cartel, or my two phantom girls are hard-core carjackers, we’ll chalk it up to their fathers’ phantom genes.
Discussion about this post
No posts
Playful and fun.
Fair enough!