Ten rules of dating my daughter

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Was reporting her just deleting her all over again? I assuaged my guilt by tithing, giving 10 percent of what I earned to the Church.

Was “her” still me even though I’d spent the last 15 years decidedly being not her, trying to do more with my life than the eight months I’d spent, at 19 years old, playing a porn star? When the elders confronted me, having found out about my work, I stopped going.

Once, she and I went to dinner and the waitress brought her the glass of wine I’d ordered.

She’d taken drugs I hadn’t touched, had bounced from the triad of her mother, her aunt, and her grandmother throughout her childhood. I sighed, lightheaded again with how quickly my anger could fade.

It was the same account that I used for work at a tech startup with an all-male team. Once at the office I ducked into a conference room with the privacy of frosted glass and pulled up an incognito window on my work machine.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, but this troll had found my real identity and linked the porn page to my personal Twitter account.

It revealed an XXX profile link that an internet troll had left on my personal Twitter page.

There she was, a girl I recognized, frozen in time 15 years ago.

The woman who answered was perky and calm, which didn’t stop me from babbling, “Yes, my stepdaughter—she, she said there was a shooter, I want to pick her up, is everyone okay, where should I go? My teeth had been freshly freed of metal, but I still struggled with my skin and my flat chest and skinny legs.

” In the silence that followed, I heard myself the way she must have heard me: hysterical. My stepdaughter was fourteen the way I had never been fourteen. She was more beautiful, her body more womanly, than any fourteen-year-old has the maturity to handle.

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