Instead, I started asking questions. I began with: “Why do you think it’s the wrong book?” She’d been lifting a forkful of mac and cheese to her mouth. Now she held it there, as if for two seconds I’d stopped time. “It’s inappropriate,” she said. Then she took a bite. “Why do you think it’s inappropriate?” I asked. She swallowed. “We aren’t having this conversation, Donovan,” she said. “Why not?” I asked. “You know why I think it’s inappropriate.” “Not from you. Only from other kids who heard it from their parents. You didn’t talk to me about it. Not once.”
