Say we met under different circumstances. Say I was a customer at the jewelry store, that place where you forged silver and turquoise into a certain type of beauty, that place you owned with your second wife, the other, the not-my-mother, the no-step-about-her. Say I hadn’t been your daughter, your flesh made whole. Say you’d been a father, even just a dad. Say you’d stayed. Say you’d held my toddler hand, snow to my knees—no, higher—boots fashioned from plastic bags over my shoes, held in place with rubber bands. Say you’d sent money, say you’d left us some food. Say you knew how to keep a promise. Say anything, change every detail, and we could have been a family. We could have gone to a father-daughter dance where I’d balance on your shoes, you swinging me around, my mouth open, my hair tracing a circle around us. We could have had dinner together every night if we wanted. You, mom, me. Pork chops and baked potatoes, green beans from a can. Maybe we sat in front of the tv while we ate. Maybe we laughed at the show together. Maybe you drove me to school. Maybe.