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It is clear that Stan is still taken with her, obsessed. He asks me about her in great detail. I feel like the child of divorced parents—except that I have no idea who these people are or what they are talking about. What they are most interested in is talking about each other.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2004/12/20/the-mistresss-daughter
As Stan walks up to the counter, I notice that his butt looks familiar; I am watching him and I’m thinking, There goes my ass. That’s my ass walking away. His blue sports coat covers it halfway, but I can see it broken into sections, departments of ass, high and low, just like mine. I notice his thighs—chubby, thick, not a pretty thing. This is the first time I have seen anyone else in my body. I am fascinated. I stare as he turns and comes back to me. I look down at his shoes, white loafers, country-club shoes, stretched out, fading. Inside the shoes, his feet are wide and short. I look up; his hands are the same as mine, square like paws. He is an exact replica, the male version of me.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2004/12/20/the-mistresss-daughter
“I would have liked to take you for a nice lunch if you’d worn something better,” he says when we are in the hallway.
I am dressed perfectly well—in linen pants and a blouse. DNA testing is not a black-tie occasion. I am tempted to say, That’s O.K.—I would have liked you to be my father if you weren’t such a jerk. But I am so stunned that I become stupidly apologetic. I am not wearing what he wanted. I am not wearing a dress. I am not living up to his idea of a daughter.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2004/12/20/the-mistresss-daughter
The Mistress’s Daughter
Meeting the parents.
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