“I believe they’re my daughters.”

Her expression changed not to anger but to stunned confusion.

“Then what does that make me?”

I had been her stepfather for eight years, yet I could not remember the last time I had asked how she felt without first asking about her grades.

“You’re still Penelope,” I said.

“And I’m sorry you’ve been made to feel like a prize has to prove that.”

She looked down.