The girl who cleans my room tells me I remind her of her father: a preacher who lives in strict accordance with the Bible. I just think I bear a resemblance to Ichabod Crane.
This so-called resemblance startled her greatly, and upon seeing me for the first time, she had difficulty breathing and had to leave the room.
One day she stops mopping, turns to me, and says, “I’m pregnant and Russell has left me. He said the child couldn’t be his and asked why I was doing this to him.”
A tear runs down her cheek. “Please forgive me, Father.”