Strangers At Home

Brian has donned the navy blue tie crossed by slim white stripes for this evening's Nightly. He began to think of everything she did as an act of defiance.  He got up precisely at seven every morning, started a pot of coffee, walked down the driveway to get the paper, and sat in his chair at the table to read it, section by section, in order.  Much later, usually at ten or eleven, she awoke, came into the kitchen with her hair tousled, wearing one of his teeshirts and a pair of denim shorts (if he was lucky) or boxers, poured a cup of coffee, and plopped down in a chair.  He still watched, horrified, as she spooned sugar into her cup--endlessly, he thought--and gave it a huge dousing of cream.  Who was this? he often thought.  How on earth is this my daughter?  Is there nothing of me in her at all?