These Are My Kids


We’re getting snacks and sodas at AM/PM — me, my son and two of his friends.

I know the girl at the register because I stop here for a soda most days on my way to work and she’s always here.

“Hi,” I say to her. “These are my kids.”

She looks at the kids, who are all the same age and look nothing like each other — a tall Wasian kid, a stocky Asian and an Indian boy.

“Different moms,” I explain.

Afterward, the group was evenly divided on whether or not she believed me . . .

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