I didn't know exactly when it would arrive, or exactly how, but as soon as my wife - Candace's mother -- pulled out of the garage on a Saturday morning, hauling her craft jewelry to yet another distant flea market or art fair, the inexorable countdown would begin. It had become to us a law of nature.

Another apparent immutable was the unspoken rule that Candace and I each faithfully observed, right up until the very moment itself. Until that moment, we each behaved as the affectionate - but normal -- parent and child we were the other six days of the week, just as though my wife were right there in the room with us.

Right up until the moment, that is.

000000

"Hey, Paul."

"Hiya, hon. Sleep well?"

"Yeah. Is that toast?"

"Yeah, I made it for you. I already ate."

"Thanks.

She sat down and began to spread jelly over the toast, while I savored my second cup of coffee. I wondered whether I would get any yard work done today. It all depended on the adorable little eighth grader sitting across the table from me, looking just as innocent and carefree as one might expect.

A girl her age has little in her life to cause her a crinkled brow; nothing more serious than, say, an overdue sentence-diagramming assignment for her English class, or fleeting angst over whether whichever boy she currently "loved" ever even noticed her. Candace is no exception, and although she isn't my daughter by blood, it delights me to watch her grow up and grow through each stage in her young journey to adulthood.

Candace is, as I mentioned, fourteen years old, and on this particular morning her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was still in her pajamas - flannel pink, with a button-front top and long-legged bottoms, covered with little white "Hello-Kitty" icons. This comfy outfit mostly disguised her blossoming young form.

Maybe she had homework planned first thing; or maybe she and her little clique of junior-high heartbreakers were heading to the mall this morning. If so, the "moment" would not come for some time.

Well, if I was given the opportunity, I'd head over to the Home Depot and pick up a few bags of lawn fertilizer, then I'd....

"This toast is burnt!"

So much for that. This week's pretext: burnt toast.

"You burnt the toast. I knew I should have made my own. You suck at cooking." Mind you, we both knew the toast was not burnt.

"Candace, I don't like your tone. If you don't like your toast, make your own, or have something else. But I will not tolerate you speaking to me that way."

Her face flushed pink, her big hazel eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and I could see the cute little nostrils of her button nose flaring with her quickening breath. The moment had arrived, and the yard work was definitely going to suffer a delay.

"You're not the boss of me!" Her voice quavered. "You're not my real dad. I don't have to listen to you!"

"You don't think so? You're not too old for a spanking, young lady. Don't make me treat you like a little girl."

"You wouldn't dare!" ......(cont)