My fourteen-year-old daughter, her body petite, her breasts little budding mounds, raced forward. Blonde pigtails streamed behind her. The cop’s han...cuffs dangled from her right hand. She held it up like a trophy as she ran.“Daddy!” she jumped to me, landing proud like a gymnast at the end of her routine. She threw her arms out, grinning at me. “I got them.”“Yes, you did, Kitten,” I grinned, snatching them. I bent down and kissed her on the mouth.She sighed into the kiss. Her mouth moved on. Michelle wanted to know everything and anything that came to her mind. I know that after I’ve been apart from my mom, when we get together, I’m the same way. Talk just floods forth until I get worn out spilling the beans and hearing hers.That’s the way it went and I loved every second of it. Soon, Michelle was talking about the Tree House. Was it still up? What did it smell like? Had we been up there?It was as if she had talked with Lindie about it all of her life. It was just like the Tree. More

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