I remember once when I was about six years old
I was sitting on his lap frowning upinto his latest face.
"Shouldn't I call you 'Daddy'?" I asked.
Until then, I had called him Doro, like everybody else did.
"I wouldn't if I were you," he said. And he smiled.
"Later, you won't like it."
I didn't understand, and I was a stubborn kid anyway.
I called him "Daddy." He didn't seem to mind.
But, of course, later, I didn't like it.
It still bothered me a little, and Doro and Emma both knew it.
I had the feeling they laughed about it together.
Doro was a black man this time.
That was a relief, because, the last couple of visits, he'd been white.
He just walked into my bedroom early in the morning and sat down on my bed.
That woke me up.
All I saw was this big stranger sitting on the side of my bed.
"Say something," I said quickly.
"It's me," he said.