Typical

This story epitomizes my father and stepmother. Extremely sweet and well-meaning, falling short in execution.

Last night I had them over for dinner, and made my first attempt at risotto. They showed up about fifteen minutes early, dessert and something else in hand.

"I made you and John presents!" my stepmother declared. "I found this big box with pictures and made you each a little album of when you were little."

"Really?! Thanks, that is so sweet of you!"

With them looking over my shoulder I began flipping through mine. Baby pictures, Santa pictures, playing in the snow with our old babysitter, old ballet costume pictures, some little girl that isn't me...

I looked again.

"Um, this isn't me."

"What? It looks just like you! Then who is it?"

"I don't know, but it's definitely not me." I started laughing.

"Why didn't you catch this when you looked through the album?" a pointless question directed at my father.

"I don't know, I would think I would have caught that..." he said. "Oh well, I always hated going to those dance recitals anyway."

"Thanks, Dad."

We kept looking. My stepmother insisted that this little girl looked very much like me (chubby and brown haired) and my father and I tried to figure out who it actually was.

"Your cousin, Shannon?"

"I don't have a cousin Shannon. Shanna, maybe?"

"Sure, sure. Shanna. Must be her."

"I can't picture Mom actually having acquired ballet pictures of Shanna."

"Well, whatever. What's for dinner?"

We're still not sure who those pictures are. But two things are certain: They are not me and the risotto was awesome.