texts: Our daughter? Is that what you said? Our daughter? I mean, you might have a daughter, but I sure as hell don't. And even if I did -- which I don't -- she wouldn't be our daughter.
labels: Her name is Felicity, and she just turned eighteen.  She ran away from Pittsburgh last year, and now she's living in some shit-hole here in Brooklyn with a guy named Chico. Strung out on crack, four months pregnant.  I can't bear to think about that baby. Our grandchild, Auggie. Just think of it. Our grandchild.