My Dads. I love how everyone says Dad looks like Eddie Murphy and he gives random impressions of Donkey from Shrek in the middle of the supermarket. I love how Daddy always wears his mother's floral apron when he cooks dinner. I love how my dads know when I'm sad, and bring me a glass of water. I love how they make crazy faces in photobooths with me. I love that they took me to singing competitions when I was six months old. I love the museum of my childhood in the basement.
I hate that they are always out at musicals or gay rights events or theater workshops. I hate that sometimes, they feel more like crazy uncles than fathers. I hate that they are never around when I need a glass of water most.
…..
"What's up, hun?" Rachel's daddy cracks open the door, her dad close behind holding a tray of sugar cookies.
"Daddy, how many times do I have to tell you to knock?" Rachel swipes a hand across her bloodshot eyes and lowers the volume of the Celine Dion CD.
"If we can hear 'My Heart Will Go On' from the kitchen, it can only mean one thing," Daddy says with a smile, holding out the gold star mug, full of water.
"Thanks," Rachel whispers in reply, taking a tiny sip.
"What's wrong, little star?"
"Oh, nothing at all. Doing some songwriting for Regionals, and you know how affected I am by music."
Both dads give her a knowing look. It's scary how much they mimick each other. Rachel knows she had to explain.
"Just the usual. You know… comments about… my relations with other students and how I… may or may not be… alone when I am older."
"Baby girl, you're beautiful. We're here for you! And we know that Finn Hudson has an eye on you."
He's too busy playing house with the wrong girl.
"Yeah. Whatever you say, Dad. I would kind of like to get back to my songwriting, so… anything else?"
"Yes. Shelby sent us some pictures."
Rachel's heart falls.
Shelby Corcoran. I love her voice. I love her determination. I love that the first time I ever saw her, she sang Funny Girl. I love that, for a moment, I had hope that I'd have a mom to watch chick flicks with and ask about boys and teach me how to deal with girl hormones and how when the time of the month rolls around I get so angry I want to punch something.
I hate that she has to do with Jesse. I hate that she may have sent him to spy on us, or seduce me, or something. I hate that she pushed her way into my life, only to abandon me. I hate that she said she couldn't be my mom, but then she went and adopted a little baby girl. The baby girl of one of my bullies.
Talk about a slap in the face. Talk about songworthy material.
Daddy hands over the envelope. Inside are some pictures of Beth—blonde fuzz growing on her head, and sweet, big green eyes. Beth wearing a baby Gaga costume for Halloween. Beth attempting to play the piano. Beth eating Oreos. Beth cuddling and laughing with Shelby. And a neatly written letter. Something about how oh-I-thought-you'd-like-to-see-pictures-of-your-replacement-isn't-she-the-cutest-thing.
No. I'd rather not.
But instead, Rachel writes a polite reply back. Because, this time, she's going to get it right.
