“I’ll call Dad right now! This is his house!” the little brat yells, having climbed onto my property, and threatens someone on the other side of the fence.
“He’ll scare you! So you’d better run!”
My eyebrows lift on their own at such confidence.
“So you call Dad, huh?” I speak from behind her.
She flinches and turns, but keeps shouting toward the invisible opponent:
“That’s it! My daddy is already here! You’re going to feel bad now! Run!”
And under her breath she gives an order:
“You’ll be my daddy!”
Her look is stubborn, as if the decision has already been made for both of us.
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Because if they find out that I’m Mom’s daughter, they’ll fire Mom. I heard her tell my aunt: if she gets fired… she’s finished,” the little one says, widening her eyes for emphasis.
I’ve only got myself to blame for getting involved and stepping in for the cheeky girl who broke onto my property. For some reason, everyone immediately decided she really was my daughter. And very soon this misunderstanding turns into problems: now I’m the one who has to persuade her to truly play the role of my “daughter.”
And everything goes completely off the rails when I find out who her mother is.