It's getting cold, and Camille recently bought me white, sleeveless undershirts for the winter. I never used to wear them, but I'm getting to like them.
Jessica first saw me in one the other morning before work and watched, bemused, while I hastily put on a sweater.
Finally I made to leave, but she stood in front of me.
“Dad. You're not.”“Not what?” I said, maneuvering around her to grab my travel mug full of hot chocolate. I needed to go.
“It's a joke,” she insisted. “You're joking.”
Impatiently, I said, “What's a joke, honey? I love you. Be good today.” I reached for the door.
Her amusement was turning to wonder. “You're really wearing Mom's shirt to work?”
I missed it at first—she still emits the occasional non sequitur, after all, and parents learn to filter what they hear.
“Mom!” she called the alarm. “Dad's wearing your shirt! He's dressed like a girl. Look under his sweater!”
Ah, now I understood.
I kissed the top of her head and walked out, leaving Camille to sort out the details.
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