“You literally are.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “Raina, please. Just look at her.”
I looked down at my daughter.
Her complexion was slightly warmer than mine or Dylan’s, but barely. Newborns changed color constantly anyway.
Then realization struck me.
My grandmother.
My father’s mother had been Afro-Latina. Over generations, many of those features had softened through the family line. My father inherited almost none of them. I inherited olive undertones and thick curls. Genetics skipped around unpredictably.
I opened my mouth to explain, but Dylan interrupted me.
“My mother noticed it too.”
Of course she did.
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